


Let Your Heart Be Light

by larryandgaystuff (cnd8544)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Harry is Amanda, I'm shit at tagging sorry, Implied Smut, Inspired By The Holiday, Liam is Iris, Louis is Graham, M/M, Niall is a young Arthur, Pining, Zayn is Miles, a little more painful than the movie but still ridiculously fluffy, additional significant others are original characters, anxiety is mentioned but not in a graphic or upsetting way I promise, basically smut free, but it's not problematic, pov switches between Harry and Liam, there's a lot of drinking? idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-11 13:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12936135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cnd8544/pseuds/larryandgaystuff
Summary: A Larry & Ziam fic inspired by The Holiday, aka the loveliest Christmas rom-com of our time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I really hope you all enjoy this messy attempt of mine to smush together my favorite couples and my favorite movie.
> 
> Please feel welcome to leave kudos and comments (I'm super needy and I respond to every single one, so hit me up), and to share my [Tumblr post](http://larryandgaystuff.tumblr.com/post/168270235664/let-your-heart-be-light-by-larryandgaystuff-a) for this fic!
> 
> Massive thanks to [Shannon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/secretswekeepxx/pseuds/secretswekeepxx/works) and [Destiny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrystanslouis) for being the best betas and most encouraging cheerleaders I could ever hope for. You made this happen.
> 
> Happy Christmas, beautiful people!

**\- Harry -**

“Get  _ out _ , Ben! Get the  _ fuck _ out of my house!” Harry screams, way past the point of pleading. He’s now demanding it. “You piece of shit, get out!” he tries again, this time hoping a shoe to the face will help the lying scumbag whimpering pathetically in front of him understand it’s not even a fight anymore. It’s over.

“Babe, listen--”

“Don’t you dare fucking call me that!” he shouts, throwing the shoe that matches the one that just thumped against the side of the asshole’s head. “Get out or I’m calling the police!”

“Fine!” Ben says, still yelling even though he’s got no right. “Call me when you’ve calmed down.”

Harry can’t help but chuckle exasperatedly at his nerve. “When are you going to get it through your thick skull that that isn’t going to happen?! We’re done, Ben! I never want to see you again!”

“Whatever, Harry,” he says, condescension dripping from his voice as he jerks on the handle of the suitcase Harry had packed for him, or rather had filled with miscellaneous clothing without much thought, no concern at all for whether he had even one complete outfit stuffed inside. “Give up the best thing that happened to you, go ahead.”

“The best thing that ever happened to me?! Are you joking?! You’re the  _ worst _ thing that’s ever happened to me, you absolute dick!” He finishes his round of screaming with a brutal shove to Ben’s back, nearly sending him flying down the stairs outside of his bedroom door. “Have a shitty life,” he adds, slamming his door shut before Ben has the audacity to turn around again.

He slumps against the side of his bed until his ass hits the floor, listening to the sounds of his worst mistake leaving, only caring enough to pay attention just to know when he’s gone for good. The front door closes heavily, and Harry wishes he could feel the vibrations of it, could hear an echo, but there’s only stillness, silence. Maybe if there was some amount of lingering sensation, he could finally find the tears he hasn’t been able to cry in so many years. But there’s nothing. He’s not even sad, is the thing. It’s mostly relief, the feeling tangling up inside of him, forming a strange mixture with the anger and disbelief that someone could be so cruel, the frustration with his own damn bad luck.

After several minutes of silence, save for the rhythmic hum of the air conditioner, he stands and collects the rest of Ben’s things scattered around his room. The prick never managed to improve his facade enough to even move much into the house, so getting rid of him isn’t such a difficult task. It’s more annoying than anything else, the fact that he has to look at his shit any longer. Gathering up the stupid tank tops he insists on wearing every day of his life along with two mismatched flip flops, he flicks the window latch open and pushes on the glass, tossing everything out onto the front lawn.

“Harry!” comes a small, irritating voice from below.

_ Son of a bitch. _ He leans over the window ledge and looks down to find Ben harassing the landscaper working below. “For fuck’s  _ sake _ , Ben! Go! Away!”

“Harry! Just--I’m sorry, okay?”

He can feel the start of a migraine pressing into the side of his head, so he lowers his own voice. At least that he can control. “Sorry for what, Ben? Because you still haven’t admitted to anything, you ass. You’re still trying to make me believe your lies, remember?”

“Harry, I’m sorry. I did...I did sleep with him. But it didn’t mean anything.”

Harry steps back from the window, not even bothering to close it. This won’t take long. He hurries down the stairs and swings open the door Ben had slammed minutes earlier. He walks down the stone path set in the grass and waits for Ben to come near enough. And just when he opens his big, fat mouth to dig his hole even deeper, Harry raises a hand and slaps him square across the face.

Ben stumbles back a step, clearly not expecting the blow. He wouldn’t have reason to. Harry’s not one for violence. But he’s had enough. And this numbskull can’t seem to get it through his head that he isn’t going to change his mind.

“Goodbye, Ben,” Harry spits, turning on his heels and heading back into the house before Ben has the chance to recover. The sting left on his hand from the strike has him hoping he left a mark, hoping the side of his face is red and splotchy for the rest of the day. Maybe one of the boys he found comfort in any time Harry wasn’t enough will soothe it with a kiss and he’ll be satisfied not to call Harry ever again. Good riddance.

Rather than returning to his bedroom right away, he wanders through the house, toward the small studio set up in the backyard. It’s quite nice, with the addition having actually been built as a guest house, with enough room for all of his team’s equipment as well as a quaint little lounge area, decorated in a modern style like the rest of his estate.

Jack and Cameron probably didn’t hear all of the commotion, but he wouldn’t care if they did. There’s always enough time to stand around and complain about the current state of their love lives after they’ve wrapped up a project. They were sick of Ben long before Harry finally sent him away.

He pushes the door open and wordlessly joins them at the mixing table, not needing to say anything before Cameron reaches over and presses a single button, bringing the paused video on the screen to life. They’ve managed to create another beautiful, thrilling trailer for a movie that most likely isn’t as interesting as Harry and his team have made it appear to be. He offers a few last minute changes, rolling his eyes and shaking his head when Jack attempts to bring up the events of the morning. Cameron laughs warmly, her sympathy hanging in the air, but not overwhelmingly so.

He meanders back into the house, shivering as he realizes the air conditioning is set too high because  _ someone _ could never just leave it the fuck alone. He climbs the stairs to his bedroom and closes the window after looking out one last time to make sure Ben’s really left. Seeing that he is, in fact, finally gone, forever hopefully, he lies back on his bed, the cool duvet wrinkling under his weight, ruining the job he’d done of making the bed neatly when he woke up alone.

He needs to get away from here. From everything. From L.A. and the stifling heat and the pressure that comes with his chosen career during the holiday season. From Ben and all of the other dimwitted, wannabe actors who he always learns too late want things from him rather than Harry himself. He pulls his laptop from the bedside table and begins a preliminary search. He has no idea where he wants to be. He just knows it isn’t here.

After a half-hour search and another half-hour of distractedly scrolling through various social media accounts, his eyes land on an obscure advertisement for something called “Holiday Home Exchange.” It could be promising if it’s legitimate, depending on the type of people who’ve listed their homes. He clicks on the link and follows a few trails, deciding against a beach house in Australia because if he wanted to sweat to death, he’d just stay in L.A., mentally filing away a lavish apartment in Northern France as a maybe, and nearly shrieking at what looks to be an almost broken down trailer home in one of the Carolinas.

Then, just as he’s giving up hope on the idea, he spots a single photo of a home advertised as resting right on the outskirts of London. The image is enchanting, fallen snow clean and white against a beautiful, old English cottage. A small iron gate sits before the house, more an endearing visual than a structure for actual protection. Leafless branches poke out from small shrubs on either side of the wooden door, hinting at their ability to produce the loveliest of roses in the spring. It’s not perfect, by its very nature, but it’s exactly what Harry needs.

Far enough from the putrid stink-hole that is Los Angeles, far enough from city life, close enough to London in the very good chance he’d become bored after less than a day of solitude. Swatting away any apprehension, ignoring the very real possibility that he could miss out on a job or two while he leaves the country without warning and goes gallivanting around Europe, he opens the chat window linked under the picture on the listing for the warm cottage on the outskirts of London, over five-thousand miles from this hell.

_ I’m interested in renting your house for the Christmas holiday _ , he types hastily. He winces at his own desperation but adds anyway,  _ Please respond. _ And then he waits, praying his bad luck has finally run out.

**\- Liam -**

Liam sits at his desk, his fingers running over the slippery satin of the bow tied around Michael’s gift. It’s a first edition of his favorite book, the one his mother had read to him as a child. Liam had nearly wept with joy upon finding it wedged into a messy corner of an old bookshop in Covent Garden over the summer. It’s been torturous secretly holding onto it all these months until he could wrap it up in shimmery paper for Christmas.

Allowing himself only a few moments more of his reverie, he places the box into the top drawer of his desk to keep it hidden until Michael comes to retrieve him, to convince him quite easily to join the party growing downstairs. He sets to work finishing his last assignment, not entirely ecstatic over the idea of another scolding from his boss if he fails to meet another deadline.

Just as his fingers dance across the keyboard to transcribe his finishing statement, a nice little quip about the beauty of this particular bride shining even brighter in the groom’s eyes, he hears soft footsteps and an even softer, “Hi there, handsome.”

He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face at that voice, his cheeks likely to ache soon. He submits his assignment and exits out of his writing program, spinning in his chair to face him. “Hi,” he says, so painfully aware of how breathless he sounds. “How’s the party?”

“Not bad,” Michael murmurs, taking a step forward to meet him for a warm embrace as he stands from his creaky chair. A delicious shiver runs down Liam’s spine as Michael whispers against his ear, his breath hot against his skin. “Could use a fit lad such as yourself, I reckon.”

Before things get too heated in his small office made of windows, Liam pulls away and goes back to his desk, opening the drawer to pull out the gift that’s been all he’s been able to think about for days. Well that, and the way Michael had kissed him senseless after he’d nearly caught Liam wrapping it, forcing Liam to shoo him out of his bedroom and guide him to the sofa to distract his suspicious mind with a blowie.

“Happy Christmas,” he whispers, trying to control the tremor reaching from his fingers all the way to his shaky voice.

Michael smiles at him, and it's all worth it in that moment, even if he doesn't love the gift. He will, though. Liam watches as he carefully tears at the paper, his eyes lighting up as he discovers what's hidden inside.

“Liam,” he breathes, his smile wide and bright. “Oh my  _ God _ !” he squeals. “Where on Earth did you find this?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Liam says, so sickeningly happy. He steps closer and wraps his arms around Michael’s middle, hiding his face in his neck, warm and smelling of spicy cologne. “Just glad you like it.”

“I do,” Michael responds, pressing a soft kiss to his hair. “I love it. Thank you.”

Liam releases his hold on him and pulls him toward the door after a quick peck. He doesn’t want to ruin this moment by asking for too much, as he regrets doing so many times before. “Let’s go mingle.”

Michael stops him with a hand on his elbow, pulls him back just a little. “I’ve got a gift for you, too. Just don’t have it with me at the moment.”

Liam smiles, unable to ignore the mild, stabbing pain that reminds him he’s said those exact words before and Liam never got a thing from him. He doesn’t care so much about the gifts. He just wishes he’d not lie about it. “Come on,” he urges, eager to briefly celebrate the holiday with his colleagues before bringing the fittest of them home for the night.

As always, he has to contain the tears that threaten to spill from his eyes as he reminds himself that Michael isn’t really his. Not in a whole, real sense. His girlfriend is downstairs right now, probably wondering as to where he’s wandered off, blissfully unaware of the fact that, moments earlier, he’d been directly above her head, in Liam’s upstairs office, snogging like a horny teenager. He has to believe, to maintain his own sanity, that it will be over soon. He clings to the hope that Michael will finally find the courage to stop pretending, to be with him for real.

Letting Michael’s fingers slip away from his as they round the corner to join the festive gathering, he wanders over to a table decorated with green and red tissue paper, topped with biscuit spreads and a fat bowl of bright punch. He pours himself a glass and chats amiably with a few women he recognizes from the mailing department, awkwardly dragging his eyes away from Michael’s broad back too many times to count within the span of the short, casual conversation of which he barely hears a word as his boss takes the stage for his annual Christmas toast.

Suddenly, someone is calling his name, and he’s confused, isn’t entirely sure why someone would be singling him out right now. He finds the paper’s editor-in-chief as the source of the outburst as the man continues talking, his voice just barely covering signs of inebriation. “We’ve got an engagement no other paper could possibly know about yet. You’ve got dibs on the wedding, if you can manage to fit it into your frightfully busy schedule.”

He ignores the jab at his productivity, unable to give much of a damn past the misery that has been hating his job for a year or more. Faking a smile, he asks politely, “And who are the lucky lovebirds?”

His boss may well answer, but Liam can’t hear anything either way. His last word falls off of his tongue like thick poison, panic swelling inside of him until the air is gone from his lungs and his heart is beating so rapidly, he’s got real cause for concern that it may just stop altogether. He watches in terror as Michael steps up onto the poorly constructed stage, being tugged along by a young woman Liam can’t bear to look at for too long without falling victim to a nauseating concoction of anger and jealousy and guilt.

The look of remorse on Michael’s face is enough to tell Liam exactly what is happening, without having to hear a word his drunken boss is barking into his ear. He can’t be sure he’s successful, but he tries his very best to smile, to appear unaffected by this news that shouldn’t cause him to feel anything other than simple happiness for his colleagues. He doesn’t mean anything right now. He isn’t sure he ever did.

Ignoring the deafening volume of his heart cracking in two, he raises his glass upon noticing others toasting the happy couple. Then he turns away from the expression of pity the celebrated man is directing straight at him as if he thinks it might help in the slightest, grabs his coat from the chair he’d draped his things over minutes earlier, and rushes through the foyer and out into the unrelenting cold, hoping for the entire journey home that his tears will freeze before they can drown him.

The moment he lets himself inside his house, his legs give out, his weakness landing his arse on the kitchen floor. It's just...over. Just like that. In one moment. In one Earth-shattering moment, he’s lost. He didn't get to take his love home tonight. He wasn't even enough to deserve some kind of warning.

After what feels like a solid hour of weeping pathetically on the cracked tile of his tiny kitchen, he pulls himself up and drags his empty shell to the loo, only enough energy left in his bones to shower off the salt water that has accumulated everywhere in the form of sweat and tears.

He stands in the hot water for perhaps a few minutes too long, judging by the redness of his skin staring back at him in the mirror where he refuses to meet his own broken gaze. He crawls into bed without bothering to throw on more than a pair of worn boxers and is moments away from a surely restless sleep when his phone buzzes on the nightstand. He’s barely looked at it all day, but he can’t think of anyone who’d be trying to contact him right now, save for one person he’s too exhausted to know whether he ever wants to hear from again.

Pushing past the drowsiness, he reaches for his phone, his brow furrowing in surprised confusion upon reading the only notification on the screen.

_ I’m interested in renting your house for the Christmas holiday. Please respond. _

In all honesty, he’d forgotten that he’d ever listed it. It had been an impulse decision, made on a night he was promised love and had it taken away with no explanation. He supposes he’s found it now. The explanation. It’s random, thinking about the possibility of leaving now, having let it fall to the back of his mind when nothing had come of it when he’d needed the escape then. How fitting, though. A chance to escape now.

Brushing the sleep from his eyes, he unlocks his phone and replies,  _ The house is only available for home exchange. Are you familiar? _

A response comes immediately.  _ Mind giving me the bullet points? _

He doesn’t allow hope to blossom just yet. This anonymous stranger could rescind his interest or want to make a terrible trade or be a madman.

_ We trade lives for two weeks. Towns, houses, cars, belongings save for those you pack and wish not to be used. We’re independently responsible for travel. Jobs obviously not included as this is a holiday. _

He doesn’t have to wait for more than a few seconds before,  _ Sounds too good to be true. _

“You only say that because you don’t know how sad my life is,” Liam grumbles. He types,  _ I’m Liam Payne, by the way. Lived right outside of London my whole life, work in the city as a newspaper columnist. Healthy, nonsmoker,  _ he takes a deep breath,  _ single.  _ “Hate my horrible life,” he adds, speaking the words to an empty bedroom.

_ Hi, Liam. I’m Harry Styles. Film trailer editor out of L.A. Same, same, and same. _ Then,  _ Your home is lovely. _

Liam can’t help but crack a smile at the compliment. He really does love this house. It’s the only thing he’d really care to lose if he finally got off his arse and left London like he said he would all those years ago.  _ Thanks _ , he writes.  _ What’s yours like? _

_ Little bigger than yours. Modern decor like most of Hollywood. Pretty close to the beach. _

_ Warm? _

_ So fucking warm. _

A quiet giggle escapes Liam’s throat, despite everything.  _ Sounds perfect. _

He waits for an agonizing minute or two, teasing a loose thread from his duvet with shaking fingers, before Harry responds,  _ You in? Tomorrow too soon? _

A feeling much like relief pours over him, a cool, comforting balm over his open wounds. Without worrying one iota about the consequences of leaving the country for two weeks without properly notifying his boss or about the logistics of scheduling an international flight and packing for a half-month holiday within the span of a few hours with zero sleep, he makes his decision. This one just for himself.

_ Tomorrow’s perfect. _


	2. Chapter 2

**\- Harry -**

The flight to London was, to put it mildly, not the most rewarding travel experience of Harry’s life. He hadn’t been able to sleep more than a wink or two, his own annoying inner monologue dredging up a plethora of emotional issues he’d rather not have at the front of his mind. Mostly reminders of his chronic failure in romance. And he’d spilled his mimosa all over his new, crisp button-up.

Turns out the last dilemma was nothing to fret over, as the moment his plane touched the runway at Heathrow, snow scraped to the side in long hills, he had the wits to throw on a sweater and keep his coat easily accessible.

The airport isn’t totally unfamiliar, he’s had to visit London a few times for his work, been invited for some movie premieres. He manages to find his way out of the chaos and into a cab, letting his anxiety fall away as he watches the naked trees dash by the windows cold to the touch.

The car comes to a stop at the start of a seemingly never-ending, snow-covered lane. He assumes for a moment that the driver will continue on. This can’t possibly be it. But the driver instead turns in his seat, clearing his throat. “Sir, I’m afraid this is as far as I can take ya,” he declares nonchalantly, an Irish accent producing a high lilt to his voice.

“Um…” Harry responds intelligently, “I don’t know where I am.”

“Oh, it’s straight up the path there, sir,” the driver says casually, pointing, the tip of his finger pressed against the glass. “Just a small ways, I assure ya.”

Harry can’t stop his eyes from rolling back into their sockets. “Great,” he huffs, handing a wad of bills to the driver, hoping it's the right amount to include a tip. “Thanks.”

The driver doesn't reach for him and grumble in annoyance as he exits the car, so everything must be there. He drags his suitcase from the trunk and starts on his very merry way to the cottage he wasn’t expecting to be hidden away in a frosted forest.

Finally, he reaches the gate featured in the photo Liam had provided of the house. It looks exactly as promised. Quaint, warm, inviting. The complete opposite of everything he left behind.

After walking through the gate and down the small pathway to the front door, only having to wiggle the doorknob a little after finding the hidden key, he steps through the threshold into a toasty, safe atmosphere. A charming little kettle for tea rests atop the old stove, a container of cookies on the counter, freshly baked based on the lingering sweetness in the air. He sheds his coat, and his eyes catch on a single sheet of notebook paper placed conspicuously on the kitchen table.

_ Welcome, Harry! _

_ Hope you enjoy your stay. If you might need anything, please ring. You know the number, I presume. In case of emergency, please don’t hesitate to contact Louis. His number is listed on the refrigerator. _

_ Have a happy Christmas! _

_ Liam _

Harry smiles, already so fond of his new friend, and pins the note to the fridge with a vintage-looking magnet, right beside the paper with a list of phone numbers, this emergency-capable Louis’ at the top.

He meanders through the rest of the house, which admittedly isn't much, and after poking his head into the bathroom and the laundry room, he begins to settle himself into what will be his bedroom for the next two weeks. He puts his clothes away in the drawers Liam cleared for him, thankful for the space and for his own last minute thought to do the same for Liam before he left his house this morning.

It must be late here, or early rather. He digs his phone out of the pocket of his jeans and nearly groans aloud when it informs him that it’s close to one o’clock in the morning. He’ll never be able to sleep, even though he had a very early start to the day, his body still in early evening mode.

His thoughts drift to the clawfoot tub he couldn’t help but notice in the small, but beautifully crafted bathroom down the hall. Reaching into his toiletries bag for one of the mini packages of bath salts he had the foresight to bring along, he lets the rest of his unpacking wait and heads for a relaxing soak.

The water is a bit different here, but he’s become used to that with his travels. It’s warm and comforting, the aroma of eucalyptus and some other mildly spicy herb he couldn’t name without another glance at the packaging drifting through the steamy air, calming his mind until he forces himself out of the tub before he becomes a prune. He lazily dries himself with a fluffy, white towel, sending silent thanks to Liam for owning such simple yet exquisite things, and allows himself the joy of exploring in the nude, wrapping the towel around his head to dry his long hair more efficiently.

He’s just begun to peruse the impressive collection of films stacked in a drawer beneath the television when a loud knock at the door startles him, the towel piled high upon his head his only protection from a nasty bruise when he looks up too quickly and nearly brains himself on the cabinet door.

The knocking continues, whoever it is on the other side apparently very determined to come in. Then, just as Harry stands, a little shakily with the surprise and the undesirable effect knocking his head into a hard piece of wood had on his neck, there comes a voice to accompany the incessant pounding.

“Liam, open the door, mate! It’s fookin’ freezin’ out here!”

Harry makes it all of about five feet before he realizes he’s completely naked. Not a great way to make a solid first impression. Not back at home, at least. He assumes it’s not  _ that _ different here. “Um…” he answers, half shouting, quickly wrapping the fallen towel around his waist with shaky fingers, “coming!”

The man continues to pound against the door, even knocking his forehead against it, by the sounds of it. “Open the door, you wanker! ‘M gonna die out here, and my death will be on your hands!”

The towel finally cooperates, and Harry rushes the rest of the way, unlocking the door and swinging it open. He immediately regrets that decision when he locks eyes with the source of all the commotion. A stupidly, unfairly gorgeous man looks up at him through his stupidly, unfairly long eyelashes, his lips pursing in a stupidly, unfairly adorable little pout.

“You’re not Liam,” the man says, brows furrowed. He’s shaking from the cold, and he smells a bit like some rich alcohol, maybe brandy.

“Um...no. I’m Harry.”

The man backs away from the door and glances to his right, presumably to the house number hammered onto the outside. “This is Liam’s house.”

“Oh,” Harry says, his brain moving off of the man’s ethereal beauty for just long enough to realize that he needs to explain the situation. “Right. I’m Harry. Styles.” He means to say more, but the man is staring at him, a sly smile pulling at his lips. It’s very distracting.

“You’ve mentioned,” he says, his smile widening to reveal sharp, white teeth that glint in the pale light.

Harry’s heart is beating like a drum. The man can surely hear it. “Liam and I switched houses for the holiday. I can explain. Just...do you want to come in?” He looks a bit hesitant, and Harry honestly just wants to get him out of the cold. He’s shivering so hard Harry’s afraid he might hurt himself. “I don’t bite,” he adds, trying for playful, but regretting it the moment the man’s eyes light up with glee. He’s a troublemaker.

The man accepts the invitation and hurries inside, slamming the door behind him, wincing when the wreath hung on the outside bangs into the glass. “Thanks, mate,” he says, still trying to warm his hands. He takes off his gloves and cups them around his mouth, only pulling them away to drag his steady gaze from Harry’s feet to the top of his head. “Why are you naked?” he asks, a look of genuine amusement on his face.

“I took a bath!” Harry says, ready to defend himself, much more inclined to laugh with the beautiful man so obviously checking him out. Did he actually knock himself out? Is he dead? This has to be a dream.

“Right,” the man responds, still smiling, seemingly trying to control himself in some capacity. “I can, erm....wait here. Y’know, if you want to put some clothes on. Don’t know where you’re from, but I’ll guess it’s not here based on that accent.” Harry feels his cheeks flush at the attention, and they must surely be as bright as a red ribbon tied around mistletoe when the man steps closer, his lips mere inches from Harry’s ear. “I suppose I can help you get accustomed by informing you that we don’t typically waltz around other people’s houses in the nude. Especially when it’s snowing outside.”

The man leans back again, taking all of the air in the room with him. Trying to force himself to get a grip, to remember how to breathe, Harry nods weakly and walks as calmly as possible to the bedroom, holding onto the towel a bit tighter than before. He throws on a sweater and pair of boxers that are thick enough to double as shorts when needed around company and rejoins his mysterious gentleman caller in the living room.

He’s managed to rid himself of his coat and boots and make himself at home on the sofa, leaning his head against the back of it. Upon Harry’s entrance, he lets his head roll to the side and opens his eyes. “More suitable, surely,” he says, amusement in his lovely, high voice. “Can’t say I don’t miss the view, though.”

A loud, awkward bark of a laugh escapes Harry’s throat, happy embarrassment coloring his cheeks. He sits on the opposite side of the sofa, careful not to touch despite how badly he wishes he had the right. It’s absurd really, he doesn’t even know this man’s name. It’s just the romantic weather and the strange, foreign land messing with his brain and his supposed-to-be-broken heart.

“So…” Harry starts, giggling when the other man does. “Who are you?”

The man giggles again, the sound so bright and joyous Harry has the frightening flash of a thought that he wishes to never lose it. Okay then.

“Who am I? Who are you?” he asks, his eyes alight with play. He picks himself up and slides down the sofa until his knees press into Harry’s thigh and looks at him in mock seriousness, a small, helpless smile giving him away. “Who are any of us?”

Harry laughs because he isn’t sure what else to do. This man is just so endearing, sweet and silly and beautiful, and Harry feels ridiculously confident in his perception of him despite having barely interacted with him. He trusts him. That's unusual. “Can you start with your name?”

“Guess,” he says, his body dropping back onto the sofa, his back resting against a pillow, his legs sprawling out to land on Harry’s lap.

“I’m not going to guess,” Harry giggles. “That could take a lifetime.”

The man throws his hand up to his chest and says dramatically, “You want to spend your life with me?” He pulls his legs off of Harry’s, seemingly unaware of Harry’s disappointment at the distance. When Harry falls victim to another fit of nervous laughter, he continues, “Wow, I just...I wasn’t expecting this, y’know? Just went to the pub for a nice pint and decided to come bother me best mate, and instead I find a naked man with a funny way of talking who wants to be my soulmate or summat.”

When Harry catches his breath, still unsure if it has anything to do with the laughter or if it’s simply a result of having this unbelievably gorgeous man so close he could touch him again if he had the courage, he says, “Are you Louis?”

“Ding ding ding! We have a winner, folks!” he exclaims, dreadfully failing at his attempt at a stereotypical game show host impression. Then, when his laughter has died down, “Yes, I’m Louis. Louis Tomlinson. I’m sorry, I’m quite drunk at the moment. Terrible first impression, I’m sure.”

Harry chuckles, shaking his head. “Don’t apologize. Didn’t realize how badly I needed a good laugh, so thank you.” Louis nods, his smile varying in size but never fully going away. “And don’t worry about first impressions. I had wet hair and nothing on but a towel.”

“So you’re saying our wretched first impressions combined made for a rather enchanted evening?”

“I suppose they canceled each other out,” Harry laughs, his stomach flipping uncontrollably.

Louis brings his hand up to his face, yawning deeply, his eyes closing tightly before fluttering open again to land on Harry’s. “Sorry, just absolutely knackered,” he says quietly, gently shaking his head from side to side. “Would you mind--it’s okay if you say no, I promise--but would you mind if I stayed here? I can pass out on this sofa in about thirty seconds flat.” He finishes with another nearly silent yawn, “I won’t be a bother. Out of your hair first thing in the morning. You'll never see me again.”

Harry has already made it halfway to the linen closet he noticed on his preliminary walkthrough when Louis finishes his speech, having stood to retrieve a blanket when Louis had released his first yawn. He tosses the thickest and softness of them onto the couch, knowing instantly he's going to dream about the look on Louis’ face when their gazes meet.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, still smiling that perfect, breathtaking smile Harry’s already far too fond of.

“Of course. Liam said to call you in case of emergency, so I guess it's only fair I offer the same to you.”

“Liam told you to call me in case of emergency?” Louis quips, chuckling. “That's embarrassing.”

Harry laughs, “No worries. I'll let you get some sleep.” He takes a step toward the bedroom, but he can't quite take his eyes off of Louis. Not yet. He just needs a few moments more. Louis doesn't seem to mind. With a ridiculous bout of bravery, he adds, “And just so you know, I wouldn’t mind if I did see you again.”

Harry feels a smile creep onto his lips to match Louis’ as he stares for a long beat. “Goodnight, Harry Styles.”

He ignores the surprising jolt of pain that comes with ripping his eyes from Louis and heads for his temporary sanctuary. He closes the door quietly and rests his back against it, his heart still beating too quickly for any hope of endurance.

He'd come here for silence, solitude, peace. From the brief interaction they’d had in Liam’s living room, Louis seems the exact opposite of what he was looking for. Loud and mischievous and absolutely lovely. Harry can't find it within himself to be anything other than embarrassingly, stupidly, ridiculously happy.

He lies in bed, the duvet warm and soft against his skin, and drifts into a dream, colored in ocean blues and light pinks the exact shade of a pair of lips he'd very much like the chance to kiss.

**\- Liam -**

Liam finds his seat aboard the plane and sets himself down gently. He’s been trying not to rock the metaphorical boat too much, figuring exuding peace might help him feel that way inside. His bags are overhead, and he’s got a few items for entertainment during the long flight. Letting the sounds and movement of other passengers settling in fade to the background of his attention, he glances at his phone. And immediately regrets it.

_ Li, please talk to me. I know you’re angry. I don’t blame you. I never meant to hurt you. Where are you? _

A collection of brief sentences that mean nothing at all. Liam inhales deeply, desperately calling on any reserves of that peace he’s been trying to cultivate since last night. He shuts his eyes, can’t stand the way Michaels’ words burn into them. Knowing he can’t hide from this, can’t lie to himself anymore, he presses his thumb a little too forcefully against the reply button and writes,  _ We both know I need to fall out of love with you. Please let me try. _

He turns off his phone, telling himself he’ll read one of the books he’d brought that he’s been meaning to read for years. He doesn’t do much of anything. It’s not constant, but the lump in his throat comes and goes throughout his journey, tears burning his eyes only to never fall when he reminds himself to breathe, sleep so close but so out of reach with the way his heart won’t stop beating just a little too hard against his lungs, beating them up, its frantic pace enough to bruise.

Finally, the seatbelt signs are illuminated and the flight attendant advises everyone to prepare for landing. It’s bright outside of Liam’s window, reminding him he hasn’t lost much time at all, his travel time and the time difference canceling each other out for the most part. He lets his gaze wander over fields that turn to highways that turn to red lights that turn to tiny little people going about their day in sunny California.

He hails a blindingly yellow taxi to take him to the address Harry had sent him. His jetlag falls away as he watches palm trees blow past the window, allowing himself to open it a bit to let the warm breeze caress his skin. He knows the beach must be just beyond his sight, and he can’t wait to see the blue of the ocean, feel the sense of freedom that comes with standing on soft sand, looking out on a never-ending expanse of beauty and possibility.

He knew the place was massive, but he’s still unprepared for the size of it, the extravagance when he pulls up the driveway. He can’t help but give a little jig as he wanders up to the door, through ridiculous amounts of lush landscaping.

And the beach is just as beautiful as he imagined, even more so from Harry’s house. The moment he enters the house, his eyes land on a wide balcony overlooking the water, sheer white curtains hanging lazily before a pair of glass doors. He drops his bags and runs, swinging them open, delighting in the burst of fresh air. It’s absolutely gorgeous. He feels more alive than he has in months.

Before he’s had much of a chance to do anything but open a few windows and lose his mind over the extensive entertainment center, thousands of films and records all neatly lined up on clean, white shelves, the doorbell rings. Or well, he thinks it’s the doorbell. This house is ridiculous.

He rushes over to the speaker box drilled into the wall by the front door and pushes the largest of the buttons, hoping it’s the right one. “Hello?” he says politely, if not a bit confused.

“Hey, Styles,” a voice crackles through the speaker, "you got a few minutes? Sorry, man, I tried calling. Why the hell is your phone off? Are you dead?”

Liam laughs awkwardly before pressing down on the button, “Hi, um...Harry’s not here. Would you like to come in?”

A long moment passes. Liam assumes the stranger is working through a bit of confusion. “Is he okay?”

He’s already handling this so smoothly, causing Harry’s friends to worry for no reason. “Yeah, mate, he’s fine! Kind of a long story. I can let you in, and I can explain.” He searches the keypad, looking for an obvious button meant to open the gates outside, and fails to see anything of interest. “Um...do you know how to open the gates?”

A bright laugh comes through the speaker, and Liam can’t help but smile at the warmth he can hear even from afar. “Harry’s always got to have everything so complicated. Pretty sure it’s the blue button at the top.”

Before pressing it, he says, “Here goes nothing.”

Another chuckle and a “Fingers crossed,” has Liam praying they’ve found the trick. He really wants to put a face to this wonderful laugh. It’s a strange feeling, this kind of vague hope, but he’s leaning into it.

Seconds later, a low scraping sound drifts in from outside, and he knows he’s at least done  _ something _ . He opens the door and peeks outside to find a red sports car pulling up the cobbled drive, so he guesses he was successful. A head of dark hair is visible with the car’s top down, the man inside donning fashionable sunglasses that somehow accent his light scruff. This bad boy image hardly matches the sweet giggles that poured through the speaker moments before.

The man exits the vehicle casually and strolls toward Liam, extending his hand. “I’m Zayn Malik,” he says with a smile, “I work with Harry. Who are you exactly?”

Liam isn’t even really sure why, but it’s like he’s in some kind of daze. Drunk somehow. It has to be the smell of the ocean, the shock of warm weather. The man could have asked him a question for all he can remember, but there’s only one thing floating around in his brain.  _ ZaynZaynZayn. _

“Y’alright there, bud?”

Liam hears it this time, wills himself to get it together enough to avoid this gorgeous man thinking he’s a complete idiot who can’t string two words together. “I’m Liam,” he says, a blush hitting his cheeks when he all but whispers his name. He notices a long, lean arm reaching out to him, and before he can panic over how long Zayn has been forced to keep it there before he realized, he takes his hand in his own and lightly squeezes.

Zayn’s eyes leave his momentarily to glance at their joined hands before he pulls away and looks back up. Liam’s nerves rattle against his bones, making him shiver despite the heat.

He takes a deep breath and continues, “Harry and I switched houses for Christmas. He’s in London at the moment.”

Zayn smiles and Liam’s heart bursts into flame at his next words. “I thought I heard a cute English accent through that shitty speaker.”

“Yep,” Liam chokes, knowing Zayn can hear the panic in his voice.

“Well, I just need to get into the office for a few minutes. I have a key. That okay?”

Liam nods and watches as Zayn slides past him toward the back of the house. “Be right back,” he says, winking before slipping out of sight.

The door closes just in time for Liam to rush to the couch and collapse. Zayn’s been gone for several minutes before Liam even realizes he hasn’t thought of anything but his amber eyes since his departure.

He came here to get  _ away _ from men who make him swoon like a lovesick teenager. This is...unexpected.

He sits and stares at the wall uselessly, so zoned out he’s actually surprised when he hears the sound of the door closing again. He jumps up from the couch, his cheeks no doubt betraying his embarrassment, his eyes following Zayn as he comes closer.

Then Zayn speaks. “Do you hate flying or something?” he asks, one perfectly arched eyebrow quirked up in amusement.

“What?” Liam asks, confused at the change in topic. The previous being a silent conversation with himself over whether Zayn’s eyes do, in fact, shine brighter than actual fire.

“You look like you’re going to be sick.”

Oh.

“Oh. I, erm...yeah. I guess the trip was a little bumpy.”

Zayn nods slightly, his lips pressed together tightly. There’s humor in his eyes, like he’s just discovered a secret. He might have. “Right,” he quips, running his fingers through his quiff. “I’m off then.”

An alarm sounds in Liam’s brain at the thought of him leaving, not willing to part with him just yet. “I’ll walk you out,” he offers, entirely too nervous for the big ball of nothing that this is. He knows this isn’t anything. He knows it could never be. He’s just not the kind of person who gets chances like this. It’ll never happen. He’ll just have to make this moment last as long as possible.

Zayn smiles and leads them to the front door, Liam trailing behind him like a desperate puppy, silently begging for more from this enchanting stranger.

They reach his car, a candy apple Corvette Liam notices with a pang of jealousy and a jolt of arousal. Zayn turns to face him just as a heavy burst of wind hits Liam square in the face. He blinks through it, his hand coming up to cover his eye as he feels something quite like a small rock scratching up his cornea.

“Oh no, did they get you?” Zayn says softly, effectively cutting off Liam’s breathing when his hand gently rests upon his cheek. Liam glances at him with his working eye, wishing that this won’t be the last time he feels the man’s skin on his own. “Try to open your eye, and hold still.” He’s still talking so softly, his warmth seeping into Liam’s skin, dripping down his neck and spreading across his chest. Liam does as he’s told.

Zayn rises up on the tips of his toes and blows a stream of cool air into his eye, grinning mischievously when Liam can’t help but flutter his eyelashes at the sensation. “I was hoping you’d flirt back at some point. Seems I just needed to blow you.”

A loud, boisterous laugh escapes Liam’s throat. “You cheeky shit!”

Zayn laughs, too. It’s a beautiful feeling, to make Zayn laugh, his eyes squinting in the sunlight, lips stretched thin around a bright smile. “I’ll take it. I’ve been called worse.”

After a moment, Liam asks, “Who’s they? You asked before if they got me.”

Zayn throws his arms out to both sides and pulls a goofy face when the wind comes to life again, as if motivated by his movement. “The Santa Anas, of course. They’ll sweep you right off your feet.” He takes a step closer, and says more quietly than before, “Do you know what the stories say about these winds, Liam?”

He doesn’t. He shakes his head, waiting with baited breath for an answer, hoping beyond hope that it’s a promise of seeing this beautiful man again, of ever having the chance to hear his laugh pressed against his ear, hushed and private just for him, of even the slightest possibility of finding out if his pink lips taste as sweet as they look.

Soft fingers brush along his stubbly face, Zayn’s hand cupping his cheek. “When the Santa Anas blow,” he says, his voice low as if sharing his deepest, darkest secret, “anything can happen.”


	3. Chapter 3

**\- Harry -**

Harry wakes slowly, eyes peering around an unfamiliar room as he relishes the few moments he allows himself to remain cozy under a heap of warm blankets. His thoughts quickly turn to a pair of blue eyes, and hope soars in his chest as he pleads with the universe for Louis to still be sleeping in the living room.

He slips out from under the covers, wincing as his bare feet touch the cold floor. He wanders through the hallway quietly, a helpless smile growing on his lips as he hears soft sounds coming from the kitchen. Louis is turned away from him, humming softly as he pours water from the tea kettle atop the stove, steam curling in the air as it fills a couple of mugs set on the counter. Harry watches him silently, a warm serenity flowing through his heart at the sight. He’s even softer in the pale morning light, his hair messy and sticking up in a few places. He’s so pretty like this.

Louis turns to catch him staring, a smile forming when their eyes meet. “Good morning, Harold. Sleep well?”

Harry’s cheeks light up with the pet name being uttered in that quiet, raspy voice. He nods, “How’s your head?”

Louis reaches up to press his fingers against both temples, groaning dramatically. “I’ve been better,” he says, but he’s still smiling, so it can’t be all that bad. “Thanks for letting me stay. Not sure I would’ve made it home before me arse froze off.”

“So cute,” Harry mumbles without thinking. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, his clamps his hand over his lips in humiliation, and he can’t help but give out a little whine when Louis laughs delightedly.

“You think I’m cute?” he teases. “Even with this mess?” He points at his wild locks and flashes a knowing smile. “‘M afraid you won’t like me dolled up if you’re into this look.”

The nervous smile on Harry’s cheeks matches the chaotic beating of his heart. “It’s cute the way you talk. You’re very British,” he chuckles.

“Right-o!” Louis exclaims then, laughing through an awfully stereotypical Cockney accent that sounds nothing like his actual voice. “Just gonna grab somma me chaps and hit the pub then! Have a pint with the gov’na! Pip pip and cheerio, old sport!” He wraps his scarf around his neck and heads toward the door as if he’s going to leave, but Harry knows he isn’t going anywhere.

Harry can’t stop laughing at his over-the-top production of faux offense. His cheeks aching around his smile, his stomach muscles sore, his knuckles white from holding himself up by the kitchen counter. “I’m sorry,” he wheezes. “I’m so sorry, please don’t go.”

Louis ends his charade, tossing his scarf onto the table before moving around the counter to invade Harry’s space. When they’ve both quieted down and had a few sips each of the best tea Harry has ever had in his life, Louis says, “I’m from Doncaster. Up north. Moved here when--” he hushes for just a moment, sipping at his tea. “Moved here about...well, about eight years ago now.”

Harry nods, eager to learn all he can about Louis, but content to let it happen slowly, at Louis’ pace. “How do you know Liam?”

“We’ve been mates since we were little ones. Moved here about the same time actually. Guess he couldn’t live without me.” He glances back up at Harry and wiggles his eyebrows, “Seems I’m irresistible.”

He’s such a shit. Harry can’t get enough. His words are locked up in his throat, but Louis must see something in his eyes because he turns to place his empty mug on the counter before taking Harry’s as well. “Any fancy tourist plans today?”

Harry shakes his head, “Nope. Truth be told, I didn’t even get the chance to finish unpacking before you barged in.”

Louis raises a hand to his chest, “Why, I did no such thing, Harold,” he says, his voice a bit higher for the sake of drama. “I merely waltzed in gracefully, asking politely for a place to rest my weary head.”

“Are you ever going to speak normally again?” Harry teases. “Did I wound you beyond repair?”

Louis slaps at his shoulder before taking his hands in his own. Holding onto them tightly, he drags Harry to the bedroom and shoves him through the door. “Get dressed,” he says, smiling but not sparing any hints to what he might be up to. Harry doesn’t care. This perfect, beautiful, impossibly lovely man apparently has plans for him, and Harry definitely won’t be arguing.

He throws on a pair of jeans and a thick, chunky sweater as he listens intently to Louis dashing around the house, setting dishes in the sink, tossing blankets back into the hall closet, then knocking on the door.

“Ready for your European adventure?” his high voice chirps behind the wood. Harry opens the door with a grin, fidgety with excitement. Louis slips past him and opens the closet, picking out a blue sweater not quite as pretty as his eyes. “This  _ is _ Liam’s, yeah?” he asks when he catches Harry’s gaze after he’s pulled it down over his head.

Harry nods, “You look lovely.”

Louis’ perpetual energy simmers a bit at Harry’s confession. He slows down, his smile as soft as it’s been all morning, his eyes a touch lighter. “Thank you,” he says sweetly.

“So what do you have up your sleeve? Should I be scared? You could be a serial killer. This could all be some elaborate ruse to be ended with ‘and he was never seen again.’”

Louis giggles, crossing his arms in front of his chest. The pose accentuates his narrow waist, just how small he really is, and Harry’s mouth suddenly goes dry. Louis doesn’t pay his breakdown any mind. “I’ve only killed two people. I think I’d need at least one more to be classified as a serial killer.”

Harry rolls his eyes, trying to hide his overwhelming fondness and walks out into the hallway and toward the kitchen to find their coats. “You’re fucking weird,” he says, laughing when Louis throws a shoe at him with an exaggerated “Oi!”

When they’ve both bundled up, Louis looks at him sincerely before letting him open the door. “Do you actually hate surprises? You didn’t seem too put off by the idea of hanging out with me today, so I’m kind of just rolling with it. Just had a few things I wanted to do today anyway, figured it might be nice to do them together. You are quite fun. Rather handsome, too.” Harry knows he’s got the silliest smile on his face, but he can’t help it with the way Louis is babbling nervously, complimenting him shamelessly. “But I’ll tell you if you’re not into surprises.”

“Lou,” Harry interrupts, effectively shutting him up with a pet name of his own. He takes Louis’ hand in his own and with his other reaches for the door, pulling it open to let the cold air brush against their cheeks. He looks back to find a joyful smile on Louis’ face, little lines beside his eyes. “Come on then,” he says, pulling him along for their grand adventure.

Six hours later, they’ve managed to discuss the bulk of their life histories, play in the snow like schoolchildren, and nearly buy out the nearest grocery store, hauling back everything they’d need to have a lovely meal because according to Louis, Harry hasn’t lived until he’s had his signature dish, and mulled wine. Louis had come to life in the middle of the spice aisle, his eyes lighting up as he exclaimed, “I’ve never tried it on me own! Life is about taking risks, Harold!” So Harry had helped him gather all of the necessary ingredients, quite content with the way his day was unfolding.

Neither of them has asked what this is exactly, but there’s a gentle hum under Harry’s skin that hasn’t gone away since their eyes met first thing this morning, and he thinks Louis too might feel the sparks that ignite every time their hands touch.

Harry grabs as many bags as he can hold and makes a mad dash to the door only to slip in the snow and come crashing down, his ass hitting the ground with a loud thud. Louis wasn’t far behind, and he doesn’t have time to stop, joining Harry moments later, a loud shriek cutting through the air as he falls. The air is still now that the snow has stopped falling, the only sound that of their labored breathing mingled with helpless laughter.

“My arse is broken,” Louis wheezes through a fit of giggles. He slaps at Harry when he laughs even harder, “Christ, it hurts. Don’t be a dick.”

Harry catches his breath and hauls himself up, pulling Louis up with him. He’s just begun to calm down when Louis slips on the ice again, yanking Harry’s arm down as he keeps a firm grasp on his hand. Harry reaches out to steady him, unthinkingly wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him closer.

Louis stills, and Harry’s breath leaves his lungs in a rush as they gaze at one another silently. He can’t help but stay absolutely still, but he can feel the pressure of Louis’ chest as he lightly pants with the effort of the last minute or so. His eyes are so blue, somehow clear as a crystal. And then they move closer, and Harry can’t see them anymore when he closes his eyes as Louis’ lips press softly against his own.

Before he can move past the surprise and let himself melt into the kiss, Louis pulls away. His eyes are wide when he says, “Sorry,” chuckling nervously, “don’t really know why--”

Harry cuts him off with another kiss, unwilling to let him think for even one more second that it was anything other than everything he’s wanted since the moment he stumbled into the house the night before.

The kiss is soft but urgent, both of them shivering a bit too much for it to be from just the cold. Louis inhales harshly against Harry’s skin as they fight for breath. Harry knows somewhere in the back of his mind that it’s too much for a first -or second- kiss, but he can’t bring himself to care. It feels right. It feels like something locking into place, a puzzle piece he only just found but immediately knew where it fit. Louis’ arms wrap around his neck as Harry’s remain coiled around his waist, holding him as close as possible. He finds himself wishing there weren’t four layers of clothes between them, wishing he could feel Louis’ skin on his, warming him from the outside in. Too much and not enough.

Harry disconnects their mouths but keeps him close. “Inside,” he says intelligently.

Louis nods dazedly, pulling away from Harry’s arms to grab the bags scattered on the ground. Harry opens the door, balancing bags of his own, and waits for Louis to follow him inside. Once they’ve escaped the bitter cold, they get to work removing their own clothes, and the air between them is calmer though still charged.

Harry watches Louis mindlessly, his every thought on the way his sweater hangs so prettily around his curves, the way his eyelashes flutter like the butterflies in his own stomach, the way his slender fingers dance along the fabric of his scarf as he pulls it from around his neck.

He almost expects Louis to tease him again, to make a quip about his drooling or his lovesick gaze, but he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Harry’s as he strips down to his jeans and sweater and kicks off his boots.

His raspy voice is shocking to hear again, after the long minutes of silence. “Should we..?” he starts, hesitation clear.

Harry’s entire body is thrumming with desire, want and need for this gorgeous man he can’t help but feel he came here for. He nods slightly, overwhelmed, but in control enough to know he needs Louis to know he wants it, too. “If you want.”

Louis steps closer, and just as Harry prepares himself for his touch, for another sweet kiss, he steps to the side and reaches for one of the wet paper bags sitting on the counter.

“Wha--” Harry starts before Louis glances over his shoulder to meet his confused expression.

“Hungry?” he questions with a knowing look.

Harry’s stomach rumbles as if to answer for him. “Well, yeah…” he admits, “but--“ 

“But what?” Louis sings, opening the fridge to grab something Harry definitely doesn’t care about right now. He looks at him coyly, his eyes shining with mischief below his long lashes. “Do you have  _ any _ self-control?” He winks, and Harry nearly melts into the floor. “Honestly, Harold.”

Harry steps forward, confidence back in place now that he knows Louis is just messing with him, trying to get him riled up. It’s working. He nuzzles into Louis’ neck, drowning himself in his sweet scent, just a little spicy from the sweat that built up under his scarf. “You’re a tease,” he groans.

Louis turns in his arms, reaching behind him to set down a bottle of some kind so he can wrap his arms around his waist. He lifts his chin so that his lips brush against Harry’s ear, sending a shiver down Harry’s spine. “Just want you to have the energy to fuck me properly,” he whispers.

Harry can’t help the gasp that falls from his lips before he crashes them into Louis’, kissing him fiercely, desperately, knowing it won’t work, but secretly loving the game. He licks the seam of Louis’ lips, begging for entrance, and Louis opens his mouth easily, their tongues dancing together in moist heat. Harry pushes him up against the counter, lifting him when Louis tries to climb his body moments later. He crosses his ankles at the dip of Harry’s back as he sits on the edge of the counter and pulls him closer with his arms wrapped around his neck, his fingers tangling in a mess of curls.

When they pull away to suck in deep breaths of air, Harry opens his eyes to see a much darker blue than before, Louis’ eyes burning cobalt, black around the edges. He wants this, too. Harry doesn’t understand how someone so gorgeous, so funny and so intoxicatingly witty, so soft and lovely could want him. He won’t dare ask.

Louis lowers a hand to pinch Harry’s asscheek, smirking devilishly. “Patience,” he whispers, pressing one more quick peck to his chapped lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry nods sheepishly, loosening his relentless grip on him. Louis jumps off of the counter and moves to start unwrapping food. Harry watches him for a few minutes, follows his movements as he dances gracefully around the small kitchen. Before he knows it, Louis has a seasoned, stuffed chicken on a baking sheet headed for the oven. He turns and wipes his brow dramatically. He says with a smile, “I know you like watching me arse, but I’ll take some help with the potatoes, if you don’t mind.”

Harry chuckles, no point in denying the obvious, and moves to the sink to wash his hands. “Where did you learn to make all of this?”

“Grew up the oldest of a large bunch, remember?” he says. The light in his eyes each and every time his family comes up is something Harry can’t understand. Sure, he loves his family, but what Louis has is so obviously something special. Harry loves it, the way he comes alive when he speaks of his sisters, of his mum. “I’ve always loved making food for people I love.”

The question hangs in the air, but neither of them dare to touch it.  _ Do you think you could love me? Someday, maybe? _

Harry’s brain reminds his heart that he’s leaving in less than two weeks. That he comes here a few times a year, at most. That they’ve known one another for less than a day. That these feelings are absurd and dangerous.

“That’s nice,” Harry responds weakly.

Louis glances up at him and hands him a knife, silently instructing him with his own ministrations as he cuts the potatoes. “Thanks,” he says quietly, happily.

Once they’ve gotten all of Louis’ signature meal prepped and into the oven, they take the spices from their bag and dig around in Liam’s cupboard for a few more Louis knew he already had. Harry sets to work pouring the wine in a saucepan while Louis grabs one of the oranges he bought from the fridge. They work quietly and diligently, sparing each other sly, happy glances every few seconds until the mixture is simmering, the sweet and spicy aroma wafting through the air, mingling pleasantly with the smell of their dinner.

Louis looks so beautiful, his cheeks a little pink from the heat in the tiny kitchen, his fringe just barely sticking to his damp skin. “It smells good, right?” he asks, a nervous smile playing at his lips.

Harry nods, “Yeah. Think it tastes good?”

Louis shrugs his shoulders, barking out a laugh. “I hope so. Massive waste of wine if it’s shit. Bit embarrassing, too.”

Harry laughs, “Let’s just try some. Take the guesswork out of the equation.”

They take turns pouring the mixture into thick tumblers, Harry making a bit of a mess when he initially forgets to do so using a strainer. Louis teases him gently, placing a soft hand on the small of his back as he tries again. He waits for Louis to fill his own glass, and after toasting to nothing in particular they raise the glasses to their lips and each take a sip.

It’s quite possibly the worst thing Harry’s ever tasted. And he’s tasted come. It’s really,  _ really _ bad. He swallows it down anyway, trying desperately to control his gag reflex to spare Louis’ feelings. He tried really hard, and he looked adorable doing it.

Louis apparently doesn’t have the same reservations, Harry learns when he spits the wine out the moment it touches his tongue, spraying warm, burgundy liquid all over Harry’s sweater. “This is awful!” he shrieks, wiping at his mouth desperately, his hand catching on his teeth as he laughs.

Harry nods with a grimace, unable to control his own smile. “It’s pretty bad,” he says apologetically.

“I’m so sorry! Oh my God, your jumper!” Louis wipes a kitchen towel across Harry’s chest frantically. “I’m sorry, Haz.”

Harry can’t stop smiling, even with his clothes absolutely ruined. “Haz?” he questions, meeting Louis’ nervous gaze.

“Oh,” Louis murmurs, his cheeks growing pink, “Sorry, it’s a habit of mine. I love nicknames.”

Harry reaches out to tuck a piece of fringe behind Louis’ ear. “Don’t apologize. I like it.”

Louis smiles and sets down the glass he’s still got a firm grasp on with a soft thud. “Didn’t even know you could make wine taste so terrible.”

Harry falls into a fit of giggles, stepping closer to offer a kiss to ease the pang of failure. Louis accepts it, smiling into the kiss as Harry laughs against his lips.

He says lowly, “Did you swallow to hide your disgust or to give me a taste of what’s to come?”

It’s not funny, it’s incredibly sexy, but Harry laughs even harder at the absurdity of it all, his eyes shut tight as he crashes his lips against Louis’ again, just to shut him up.

Louis doesn’t stay serious for long, joining him in laughter as he pulls away and asks breathlessly, “Wanna try again?”

Harry removes his sweater, his heart beating hard when Louis’ eyes widen at his nakedness, and agrees to go for a second attempt, very willing to try as many times as it takes. Both to give Louis the success he’s craving and because he knows they both need a little liquid courage and this is entirely undrinkable.

They repeat the process, kissing passionately against the counter until the second batch of wine begins to simmer on the stovetop. They only fill one glass this time, taking turns sipping the dark alcohol. It’s not amazing, but it’s tasty enough to sip at to calm their nerves while they try again.

Their third attempt is equally as unsuccessful as their first, but by now they’ve got alcohol swimming in their veins. Harry drops a vial of cinnamon, making Louis sneeze repeatedly as he tries to clean up the mess with shaky hands and eyes full of happy tears. Louis enacts payback in the form of splashing Harry with wine, soaking him before forcing his stained sweater over his head so he can lick the stickiness from his skin. By the time this batch of wine is cooled enough to drink, both of them are much more concerned with getting their mouths on each other.

Louis announces that there is enough time before dinner is finished to try one more time using the last of the ingredients, and after one or two or five more slow kisses, they prepare everything again, bumping into one another with their hips and letting hands linger on soft skin, Louis’ effortlessly reaching Harry’s bare skin, Harry’s reaching up under Louis’ unmarred sweater to produce silent shivers as his cold fingers graze over the warm flesh of his hips.

It’s quiet and calm, warm and tempting, energy and stifled need buzzing in the air, thrumming under their hands with every touch. Louis was right to want to wait. This is electric, overwhelming in the most comforting way. Harry is so happy. He thinks Louis is, too, if his permanent smile is anything to go by.

They do a better job of watching the concoction this time, not letting it come to a boil, making sure all of the elements are properly mixed in, adding a little more citrus and a little more sugar. Less cloves, Louis decides. Just a dash more of cinnamon, Harry requests, ducking just in time to avoid a pinch of the spice being flicked in his face, a bright, daring smile behind the attack.

Harry takes the pan off of the heat and they dizzily try to pour the wine into glasses for the fourth time. They make a mess and another toast, this one made better with a sloppy kiss, and cross their arms at the elbows, offering one another sips from their own glasses.

Louis’ looks over the rim of his glass with wide eyes, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “It’s good,” he murmurs, like he can’t believe it.

Harry leans forward for a kiss which Louis accepts so calmly it’s as if he needn’t spare it a thought. “Delicious,” Harry whispers, kitten licking over Louis’ stained lips. He takes another sip and allows a moan born of genuine delight to bubble up in his throat. “This is really good, Lou.”

Louis nods, pride shining in his baby blues. “Bloody fantastic, if I do say so myself.”

Harry takes Louis’ glass and places it next to his own on the counter so he can pour a little more into each glass. His insides are buzzing, his mind a little foggy, but only in the best way. Just enough to take the edge off, not enough for either of them to feel guilty for taking what they want as soon as the tension finally breaks.

“Food almost ready?” he asks, choking a little on his last word as he realizes the domestic nature of the conversation, of their relationship even.

It’s all so strange, but only objectively. It doesn’t  _ feel  _ strange. It feels wonderful. It feels perfect. It feels like what’s been missing. Who’s been missing.

“Yes, dear,” Louis teases, as if reading Harry’s mind.

Louis pulls the food from the oven, letting Harry help him plate everything after he throws on a t-shirt. Harry pours the rest of the wine into an extra glass to bring to the table as Louis brings their plates and two sets of silverware. They eat, and Harry doesn’t have to try to remember to compliment the chef because the food is honestly some of the best he’s ever had. It’s a simple country meal, chicken and cheese and potatoes, but every aspect of the dish is delicious. Louis glows each time Harry voices his appreciation.

It’s muted now, the anticipation and obvious desire, but it grows heavier with every strangled breath, every burning gaze, every touch that leaves the other’s skin tingling in its wake. Louis started this, and Harry is going to decide when it ends. It’s written on both of their faces. But he’s going to make Louis sweat a bit first, no matter how much he wants to take him right at this very second. It’s a game, and Harry is playing to win.

They clean the dishes, admittedly not doing the most thorough job because splashing one another with water and covering Louis’ nose with soap bubbles is more fun. When they’ve cleared away their mess, albeit slowly with the wine still swimming in their heads, Harry plops down on the couch as Louis searches for a Christmas movie.

He holds several up for Harry to veto before he gets to Harry’s favorite. “Really, Harold?  _ Love Actually _ ? You really are a sap, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” Harry giggles, throwing a pillow at his face across the small room.

“A’right,  _ Love Actually _ ...is all around,” Louis teases, eyes bright.

“Put the damn movie on,  _ Lewis _ ,” Harry teases right back.

Louis obeys and joins Harry on the couch, casually laying back against his chest and pulling a blanket over both of them. As if it’s normal. As if they’ve known each other for years. As if they’re more than they truly are.

Harry wouldn’t exactly call them strangers anymore. But this...it’s just so easy with Louis. So natural and calm and  _ right _ .

The movie begins, Hugh Grant’s monologue playing softly from the speakers, but Harry barely hears it. All he can hear is the slow, even cadence of Louis’ breathing. All he can see is the way Louis’ hair glows auburn in the glow of the lamp behind them. All he can feel is the warmth of his body, the pressure of his weight against Harry’s heart.

Louis’ eyes are glued to the bright screen, but they aren’t moving. He isn’t really watching the movie. They’re just two people pressed against one another on a couch not watching a Christmas film, all of their attention on the other without any proof of it.

Determined to fix that, Harry grabs the remote and shuts off the television without a word, lifting his other hand to Louis’ head, carding his fingers through his thick hair. Louis looks up to meet his gaze, his body shivering just once at the touch, at the implication of what’s starting for real this time. After a moment of silence, Louis lifts himself up and turns so that they’re face to face, his arms around Harry’s neck, their bodies touching from where Louis has placed his forehead against Harry’s all the way down to their feet tangled together under the blanket.

Louis kisses him, soft and lingering, humming quietly into his mouth when their tongues meet. Everything gradually shifts, the heat between them, both literal and metaphorical, almost to a breaking point as Louis dips his hips to create more friction where they need it the most. Harry moans helplessly, so beyond fucking ready to get his hands on this gorgeous man.

But it’s more than that, isn’t it?

And that’s when it hits him, like lightning to the heart, a shock to all of his nerves. He’s thought about it throughout the day, couldn’t help but shrug the worry away anytime it crawled into the front of his mind, but he can’t ignore it now.

Louis doesn’t seem to notice his impending meltdown, still sliding his lips across Harry’s, breathing hotly against his cheek, dipping down to nip at his jawline.

Harry breathes out, “Lou,” but he doesn’t relent. “Louis, stop for a minute,” he says a touch more loudly.

Louis does stop, pulling away with concern written across his angelic features. “What’s wrong?” he nearly whispers.

Harry can’t believe he’s doing this. Potentially ruining what could be a wonderful, magical two weeks, even if it never turned into something more. But it’s the right thing to do. Louis deserves that much.

“I’m leaving in two weeks,” he says, fear lodging in his throat.

Louis squints his eyes a bit, and his expression of worry turns to one of confusion. “I know.”

“Well, I just…” Harry hesitates, “I just want you to be sure.”

“Harry,” Louis says, straightening up, pulling away from Harry’s lips further than Harry would ever wish for. “I’m sure. I swear.”

“Okay,” Harry nods, once again cut off by a pair of insistent lips. Louis smiles against his mouth, and Harry can’t help but reciprocate. But then, “One more thing,” he says, rather stupidly as Louis clearly wants to kiss him and why would he ever want to stop that from happening? Louis is a  _ really  _ good kisser.

Louis stays where he is and rolls his eyes playfully. “What is it now?”

Harry swallows around his nerves and tries his best not to whisper. “I’ve been told I’m not very good at this.”

“Good at what?” Louis murmurs, eyebrow quirked in not-quite-hidden amusement.

“Y’know…” Harry huffs, his cheeks heating up under Louis’ intense gaze. “This.” He points back and forth between their bodies. “Sex stuff.”

Louis giggles against his lips like he’s just heard the world’s funniest joke. “I find that  _ extremely _ hard to believe. We’ve been snogging all day, and it’s definitely not been terrible.”

“So British,” Harry says, hoping his teasing will help to change the subject. Louis flicks his nose, and Harry retaliates by swinging Louis over as he stands from the couch. Louis wraps his legs around Harry’s waist and lets himself be carried to the bedroom, kissing from Harry’s lips to his throat and back to his lips the whole way.

Harry tosses him on the bed, and Louis laughs loudly, pure joy radiating from him in the form of a bright, crinkly-eyed smile. Harry crawls onto the bed and leans over him, lips hovering a hair’s breadth away, close enough to feel Louis’ smile change. “You’re already better than you think,” he whispers.

Harry kisses him once, slower than strictly necessary, and slips off of the bed, silently screaming over the way Louis’ eyes follow him as he steps back toward the door. “Stay there,” he orders, gently but with a hint of seriousness, just enough to make Louis gasp.

He leaves the room and quietly rushes to the kitchen, grabbing the last bottle of wine. Liam’s bedding is dark, and he’ll clearly be washing it anyway. It’d be just a tad rude not to. He’s in Europe, for God’s sake, pretending to be caught up in a fairy-tale whirlwind romance with a lovely prince, so he’s going to be as cheesy as he wants to be. Messes be damned.

He returns to the bedroom, his breath catching in his throat when he finds Louis splayed out across the bed, running his fingertips lightly across the skin peeking out from under his sweater. “What’ve you got there?” Louis asks, trying for seductive. And wildly succeeding.

Harry raises the opened wine bottle to his lips, taking a long sip before walking to the bed. He sets the bottle down on the bedside table and crawls over Louis’ smaller body. They gaze at one another as Harry guides Louis to a sitting position to remove his sweater, laying him back down to move to his jeans. He pops open the button and zips him down slowly, letting his fingers graze over his hardness still trapped under the rough material.

Louis shivers almost imperceptibly, gasping quietly above him, as Harry eases his jeans from his hips, pulling them down slowly to find bare skin, his cock springing free. “Nothing?” Harry teases, bending down to kiss his hip before removing his pants the rest of the way.

He looks up to catch Louis blushing furiously. He says softly, “Told you I went out last night.”

Harry crawls forward to press a kiss to his lips. “So that’s your game, is it? You go out to bars and dance with strangers hoping they’ll take you home? Trying to ease their burden of undressing you?” He says the words in an attempt to make Louis squirm, but mostly they cause a wave of jealousy to rush over him. He knows it’s not his place to feel this sense of ownership, of selfishness, but he can’t seem to tamp down the envy.

Louis does squirm, but the rosiness of his cheeks seems more from embarrassment than from arousal. Harry stutters, worried he’s insulted him, “Lou, I’m sorry. I’m just teasing,”

Louis smiles weakly, still panting lightly against Harry’s lips, their eyes locked. “No, I…last night was the first time I did that.” He rolls his eyes, as if struggling internally. “I thought maybe it’d give me the courage.”

“Oh,” Harry murmurs. “You don’t usually..? I’m sorry, I just assumed--”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Louis interrupts. “I’m not offended. Just a bit embarrassed, if I’m being honest. The truth is, I go out a couple times a month, but I never go home with anyone. This,” he says, poking his finger into Harry’s shoulder before moving it to his own chest, “I don’t do this.”

Harry’s mind is a mess of unutterable thoughts. He can’t process a single one, a new one rushing to take the place of each one before it too quickly for him to be able to speak any aloud. His heart is hammering away in his chest, his breathing quickening to match Louis’.

Louis clears his throat quietly, tightly shutting his eyes for just a moment as Harry stares at him from above, and whispers, “Do you do this a lot?”

Harry shakes his head. A loud, clear thought races toward his tongue, one he hadn’t really thought about until Louis asked, and he can’t stop it from slipping from his mouth. “I’ve never slept with anyone I wasn’t in a relationship with.”

Louis nods. “I have. A few times. Couple of years ago.”

Harry can’t deny the jolt of pain that comes with Louis’ confession, but it has more to do with the look on his face than Harry’s own territorial feelings. He looks almost regretful. Harry couldn’t stand to be another person on the list Louis keeps in his head, a list of people he’s slept with and wishes he hadn’t.

“This is different,” he says, as if reading Harry’s thoughts. He slips his slender fingers into Harry’s hair and pulls him down for a kiss before wrapping both arms around Harry’s torso and pulling all of him closer. He holds him tightly, and Harry hugs him back as best he can in their position.

When they first kissed, Harry had wished for more. But he’d never expected this. He hadn’t expected to feel such a strong desire to protect this man, to hold him in his arms as he fell asleep, to wipe the tears that must fall from his eyes from time to time. Louis is right. This is different. Different than anything Harry’s ever felt with anyone, anywhere.

“Have I totally killed the mood?” Louis says, his warm breath hitting Harry’s ear, sending shivers down his spine.

Harry lifts himself up on his elbows, pecking his lips a few times, peppering his face with even softer kisses until Louis smiles again. “No,” he answers honestly, “if anything, you’ve just made me want you more.”

Louis meets his mouth for another kiss, this one deeper, more purposeful, and says with a grin that’s turned mischievous once more, “Get naked, please.”

Harry laughs breathily against his skin before rising up on his knees to pull his shirt over his head. “Only because you asked so politely,” he says, his voice wavering on the last word as Louis pops the button on his jeans and yanks them down, pulling his boxers down with them.

He’s on Louis again in seconds, the clothes he’d cursed during their first kiss finally gone. After a few minutes of mindless kissing, soft presses of lips turning to tongues twisting in desperation only to fall back into a slow tempo again in a winding dance, Harry leans over toward the bedside table and carefully takes the bottle of wine in his hand. He brings it to his lips and takes another sip, letting a drop trickle from the corner of his mouth.

Louis watches, clearly enraptured, as Harry tips the bottle just enough for a thin stream to pour through the air and land with a small splash against Louis’ abdomen. The wine pools in the center of his torso as his muscles tense up at the sensation, and he gasps loudly as Harry rushes to catch the liquid with his tongue.

The wine is as dark against his milky skin as winter berries against fresh snow, and judging from Louis’ faraway gaze, Harry would guess his lips are stained, just as dark and tempting against his clean skin.

He dips the bottle again, higher on his body this time, letting wine trickle down to the valley of his collarbone, the thin liquid spilling over when he shivers, reaching around Harry and clawing his nails into his back as Harry laps it up.

“Harry,” he whimpers, “please.” The breathy raspiness of his voice combined with the sight of his eyes blown dark with desire easily convinces Harry to give up the wine.

One more kiss, sweetened with red wine and a feeling coursing between them which neither has the courage to name. That’s all it takes for Harry to submit to every little thing Louis asks for, in hushed whimpers and frantic moans, until both of them are spent, panting quietly in a dark room, moonlight shining on their sweat-soaked skin as they fall asleep tangled in each other’s arms, the sound of Harry’s name on Louis’ lips still ringing in his ears.

**\- Liam -**

Exhausted by his journey as well as his less-than-graceful interaction with Zayn Malik, Liam had crawled into the massive bed that is his for now and fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep lasting till morning.

When he wakes, it’s to a loud ringing, his phone jumping on the bedside table. He reaches for it, and upon reading the name on the screen, the comfort of the world’s fluffiest duvet falls away from consciousness as panic swells in his throat.

He shouldn’t answer. He doesn’t have any right to call.

“Hello?” he says anyway, accepting the call, swallowing down the taste of self-loathing.

“Li?” Michael answers. He sounds pained, and Liam’s heart is conditioned to break at any hint of discomfort in his voice. “Liam, are you there?”

Liam nods, realizing halfway through the motion that Michael can’t see his response. “I’m here.”

“Liam, I’m sorry. Please know that.”

Calm breaths. In and out. “I’m not sure apologies can fix this,” he mumbles. Michael says nothing, the only sound coming through the speaker that of his shaky breathing. “How are you?” he can’t help but ask.

Another long pause before, “Can we start with something easier?”

A tiny part of Liam wants to rejoice that he isn’t so happy. He doesn’t really deserve a silver lining at this point, does he? But a bigger, loud part of him hates it. He loves - loved - this man. He can’t stand to know he’s in pain.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. Self-preservation is overrated.

“I just…” Michael starts, hesitating. “I’m stuck on this one part of my book, and I know you’re the only one who can help me. You’re the only one who ever has. Would it be alright if I sent you some pages? Maybe dropped by?”

_ No! _ he wants to scream.  _ No, it’s not alright! You broke my heart! _

“I’m not in London,” he says instead.

“What do you mean? Where are you?”

“I’m in the States. Los Angeles, actually.”

“What on Earth are you doing there?” Michael asks, interrogates, as if he has any such prerogative.

“Needed to get away,” Liam says truthfully. The  _ from you _ is implied.

After a few too many moments of silence, Michael tries, “Are you having fun?” but the second the words leave his mouth, another voice travels through the phone. Hers.  _ Her _ voice asking her  _ fiancé _ if he’s ready to go. Liam knows he’ll never know where. “Liam, I’m sorry, I have to go. Would it be alright, though? If I sent you some pages? I’d really appreciate your help.”

Liam wants to scream, vomit, throw shit across the room. Because Michael knew before he even called that he wouldn’t be able to say no. He throws the duvet from his body and stands on shaky legs, trying to convince himself this will all be easier to swallow once he’s had a long, hot shower and gotten out of the house. He’s in a warm, beautiful place, and it’s actually bloody sunny for once in his life. He’s going to enjoy it no matter how hard Michael tries to ruin everything.

“Fine,” he says, numbness spreading through his heart. “I’ll send you the address.”

Ending the call and tossing the phone back onto the bed where it can’t haunt him, he saunters into the loo and experiments with the dials in the extravagant shower. He undresses unceremoniously and steps into the stream the moment it’s warm, his mood instantly lifting as he lets the hot water caress his stiff muscles, cleaning and relaxing him from the outside in.

When his fingertips are wrinkled and his chest is red from an overdose of hot water, he steps out onto the fluffy, white bath mat and dries himself with the softest towel he’s ever felt. Bless Harry and his posh lifestyle.

He heads out after dressing in jeans and a t-shirt, so thankful to not need a coat for the first time in long while, and opts to take a walk rather than drive anywhere farther. There’s more than enough to see within a short distance from Harry’s house. He doesn’t have a destination in mind, simply enjoying the lanes lined with palm trees, the warmth of the sun on his skin. He spots a quaint little restaurant, quite out of place among those typical of this lavish neighborhood, and walks up to the front door just as his stomach growls, reminding him he hasn’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours.

It feels strange to walk into a restaurant cooler than it is outside, but it’s comfortable. He takes a seat at the bar and waves at the server, taking a quick glance at the menu while he waits. He fancies something clean and fresh, something to go with his summer-style holiday, so he decides on a fruity beverage and a salad with chicken that is apparently “California fried.”

He allows his eyes to wander over the restaurant, curiously watching the other patrons, trying not to let his gaze linger too long on any one person. It’s funny how different people are here, but the same too. Sure, they’re dressed differently, and there are a range of accents floating through the air, but everyone seems busy, distracted, just like they are in rainy London. Some happy, some irritated, some failing to show any emotion at all as they drain their lunchtime cocktails.

His attention settles on a young man sat on the other end of the bar. He isn’t eating, but rather sipping at a dark-tinted pint and scratching a pen at a single piece of paper pulled away from a pile. He looks frustrated, and when he stumbles off of his stool and around the bar, Liam realizes he must be a bit tossed. He trips over his own sneaker and nearly brains himself on the counter, Liam jumping up to block the blow at the last possible second.

“Woah, mate, steady,” he says, holding the man up as he looks around dizzily. “Y’alright there?”

The man pulls out of his grip and stumbles back a step, extending his hand in a more proper greeting. “Alright, yeah,” he says, surprising Liam with an Irish accent. “Thanks for saving my life, I suppose.”

Liam takes his hand, squeezing just a little when he looks as if he might fall again. “No worries.”

The man turns to walk away, perhaps back toward his stool. Liam stops him with a hand to his elbow. He’s behaving rather impulsively, but the man just seems so blue. He can at least offer the lad a bit of conversation. Maybe he shouldn’t be drinking so much.

He silently chastises himself for his judgment. He doesn’t know this man from Adam. There’s just something there. He looks like he could use a friend. Liam can relate.

“Um…” he stutters, “d’ya wanna maybe join me? I’m new in town, just here for a holiday. I’d love some company if you’re interested.”

The man eyes him a little suspiciously, but not for long before he nods with a smile brighter than Liam thought possible. “Sure, sounds great,” he says, grabbing his papers and moving to the stool beside Liam’s.

“I’m Liam, by the way,” he says, reaching his hand out again.

The man takes it excitedly, seemingly over his dizzy spell, moving on to drunken, happy bouncing. “Niall,” he chirps, shaking Liam’s hand. “Niall Horan. You’re British then? Where from?”

“Just outside of London,” Liam nods with a smile. “What’s an Irishman such as yourself doing here?”

“Bounce between a few places for my job,” he says, the last word almost muted as he seems to regret mentioning such a detail.

Liam takes the reaction in stride and asks cautiously, “What do you do?”

“I, um...I’m in entertainment.”

Liam nods, trying for encouraging. “Do you get to go home often?”

Niall more or less ignores the question, nodding mindlessly and answering with a hum before gulping down more of his drink.

He fixes him with an intense gaze. “This is crazy, but I’m a little pissed, so I’m just gonna come right out with it, yeah?”

Liam nods, knowing his utter confusion is written across his face. “Sure, yeah. Go ahead.”

Niall huffs, throwing back the last of his pint. “I don’t usually drink like this.”

“Okay…” Liam answers unhelpfully.

“It’s just...well, I’m quite successful, truth be told. But I work under a  _ nom de plume _ , if you will. The hoity toity Writers Guild found me out somehow, and they keep  _ harassing _ me about this gala or banquet or whatever. They don’t seem to be able to understand that I  _ like _ my anonymity.”

Liam tries to process everything Niall’s just told him, struggling with it a bit. The first question that falls from his lips is definitely the wrong one. “Who are you then?” He winces as soon as he’s said it, when Niall falters a bit, looks a little nervous. “Shit, mate. I’m sorry, that was really insensitive. Don’t tell me.”

Niall laughs quietly, a breathy chuckle. “You’re a genuinely nice guy, aren’t you?” he asks, throwing Liam off with the change in topic.

Liam feels his cheeks heat up under the accusation. “Erm...I suppose so. I try to be.”

“You want to get out of here? It’s fuckin’ freezin’ in here. Food’s shit, too.” Niall says it just as Liam’s food is placed in front of him. Before Liam can even respond, Niall asks for a takeout box and hauls him off of his stool and out of the restaurant. After convincing this near-stranger that if they’re to go for a drive, he’s the only one getting behind the wheel, and subsequently dealing with his short-lived grumbling, Liam has to laugh when Niall pipes up with, “I’m straight, by the way. I’m not picking you up.”

“Good to know,” Liam says with a smile. It comes as a surprise when his thoughts land on Zayn. He’d almost made a joke, tossed out a comment about being unavailable anyway. He never would have expected, though, for his mind to jump automatically to Zayn. Shouldn’t he have thought of Michael? The man he’s been excruciatingly in love with for years? But no. His thoughts glide over Zayn’s face, his sunset eyes and midnight hair, his bright, tempting smile.

Niall snaps him out of his decidedly very inappropriate daydream. “You haven’t said anything in about three minutes. You okay?”

Liam nods, laughing embarrassedly. “Just a lot on my mind, is all.”

“Right,” Niall says, the corner of his mouth lifting to match his brows in arched amusement. “Guy or girl, then?”

Liam blushes hard, totally busted. “Guy,” he admits quietly.

“Alright, what’s the bloke like? Is he worth all of this?” Niall asks, pointing at him teasingly. “This rather intense pining you’ve got going on at the moment?”

Liam swats his hand away, laughing through the humiliation. “Don’t know, honestly. Just met him yesterday. He’s just…” he pauses, catching Niall’s gaze dramatically, “ _ really  _ fit.”

Niall loses it at that, cackling wildly, throwing his head back against his headrest. “Good for you, man,” he says when he’s caught his breath. Liam really likes this kid. It seems planned almost, that they were to meet like this. There seems to be an unspoken understanding between them, a thought Liam had had seeing him for the first time across the bar. They both needed a friend.

Niall guides Liam through the city, pointing out various tourist attractions, demanding he pull off the road when they’ve just passed a particularly great beach spot, assaulting him with chips from the carryout container and only relenting for a moment to announce, “It’s my car, mate. I can do what I want. I’m just testing your ability to drive on the wrong side of the road.”

They laugh like they’ve been friends for years, like they know each other at all. Which, by the start of evening, they do. When Liam’s hunger is too heavy to ignore any longer, Niall directs him to a nice restaurant set atop a high hill. Niall is ecstatic, speaking of all the times he’s dined here, gesticulating wildly as he spins tales of his apparently magnificent feasts.

Liam discovers that he maybe wasn’t being so dramatic when their orders arrive, decadent plates of pasta, moist chicken with rich sauces, perfectly steamed vegetables piled high. “It’s the closest I’ve ever gotten to home here,” Niall says, a longing in his eyes.

“You really miss it, don’t you?” Liam asks gently.

Niall nods. “Miss my family. Just couldn’t really do this job as well as I manage anywhere but here. Maybe if I wasn’t also juggling the complication of anonymity, it’d be possible. But I just can’t…” he looks up from his plate, “I can’t seem to ever go through with it. The unveiling.” He spreads his hands out in the air over his head, mimicking his name in lights or something close to it. He chuckles but it’s forced, lifeless.

If he’s being honest, Liam is still reeling from Niall’s revelation, the discovery that this lovely, genuinely kind, humble man is behind some of the greatest works in Hollywood, some of his absolute favorite films. But the connection they’ve made helps him remain objective, sensitive to the topic and what is really important.

“You haven’t mentioned why,” Liam prods, hoping his new friend doesn’t take offense.

Niall nervously takes a sip of his wine. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d space out my deepest, darkest secrets. Didn’t want to hit you with all of them at once.”

“You don’t have to tell me, but maybe if you did, I could help.”

A quiet huff and the clink of his fork settling on his plate, and he turns to Liam with an open, honest, if not slightly uncomfortable expression. “I’ve struggled with severe anxiety since childhood. I’m fine right now, obviously. I’m not a shut-in. I just…” he takes a deep breath like the confession is difficult to make. “I love my job. It doesn’t even feel like a job. I genuinely enjoy screenwriting. And honestly, I think deep down somewhere I’d like to be known for my work. I’m proud of it. I’m just absolutely  _ terrified _ of fame. Of everyone knowing my name, of never being able to be just a random bloke in a restaurant again, of always having to be so conscious of every little thing I say and do and how other people perceive me. It’s not like I’m going around assaulting people or doing anything like that, but I have this ridiculous fear that I’ll mess up somehow and lose everything. So I’ve built these walls and safeguards around me, around my work, to protect myself and my career. And now I just feel trapped.”

Liam ponders over his admissions, sifting through his pain as gently as possible. “So you’ve been given a chance to reveal yourself in grand fashion.”

Niall shifts in his seat. “Suppose so.”

“Do you want to do it?”

“It’s not that easy, I mean--”

“Niall,” he interrupts. “Ignore everything else for just a moment. I’m not asking if your anxiety wants you to do it. I’m asking if  _ you _ want to do it.”

The tiniest, most hesitant of smiles lights up Niall’s face. “I’d like to, but I just don’t think--”

“Stop,” Liam cuts him off again with a smile, Niall’s growing as well. “If you really want to do this, I’ll help you. But I’m not going to force you. You have to make the decision yourself.”

Liam watches brief emotions flicker quickly over his features as he considers it. Then something like hope appears on Niall’s face, and Liam feels it blossom in his own heart, as well. But there’s sadness there, too. It’s going to be really hard to leave this place, these people. He’s not even been here for two whole days, and there’s already something grounding him, pulling him here. But it’s not uncomfortable, the pull, the unnamed force as strong as gravity, tying him to this place. It feels like belonging.

“Okay,” Niall says, more quietly than he’s said anything all day.

“Okay?” Liam confirms.

Niall nods, “I don’t know what you’ve got cookin’ up in that English head of yours, but I strangely trust you. Something about this just feels right.”

They shake on it, and Niall agrees to respond to the Writers Guild first thing tomorrow. They move on to dessert, a delicious crumb cake served straight from the heavens, and even that is long gone as they continue to simply enjoy one another’s company. They discuss possible plans, Niall informing him that he’ll need to contact his therapist so he’s not just stumbling blind through this process. Liam lets him share, encourages it, but only ever with caution and care for his new friend. Niall seems relieved already, even excited at various points of the planning.

“You know,” Liam says when they’ve switched gears, “I’ve only been here for two days, and already I feel...I don’t know.” He chuckles, Niall smirking beside him. “I feel like I belong here.”

“Maybe you do,” Niall offers. “Not everyone is meant to stay where they once were.”

Liam smiles, “That’s a great line.”

Niall tips his glass in cheers. “It’s what I do.” He winks dramatically, pulling another round of laughter from them both. When they’ve both settled down, he continues, “Seriously, though. Now that I’ve spilled everything, you have to give me  _ something _ to work with. What is it that you’re running from?”

Liam braces himself for the conversation, for the onslaught of emotion that is sure to come with telling his woesome tale. Niall waits patiently, waving over their server to ask for another bottle of wine while Liam sorts out the relevant details in his head.

When they’ve both nearly drained another glass each of a bright, crisp merlot, Liam begins. “It feels foolish to say I’m running from a person. Maybe it’d be more poetic if I personified love and said I was running from it. But the honest answer is, I’m running from a lack of love.”

Niall nods, encouraging him to continue. It’s refreshing, their back-and-forth never forced, never rushed. It feels comfortable and safe, grounded and real. A real chance to talk, and to actually be heard and understood.

“I was with someone...Michael. For three years. He wasn’t out. Still isn’t. He’s not got a supportive family, and I know that’s a reason for his fear, but it was always more than just that. He just wasn’t...I don’t know. He never really accepted it himself. And I felt so guilty for so long. I pride myself as an advocate. I talk with so many people about the importance of the freedom to come out if and when a person chooses to. The hurt was just an entirely different beast when it was the man I loved. It was suddenly too personal. He wouldn’t even let me tell my mum.”

He lets that sink in for both of them, twirling a bit of pasta around his fork, fidgeting uselessly. “Then about a year ago, he told me, ‘I’ve begun to see this girl from upstairs, in the circulation department. It means nothing. You’re the person I love. I just have to keep up appearances as my family has been suspicious lately.’ And I believed him, that it meant nothing. I let him convince me, without much more than those initial promises, that I was the one he truly loved. And then a few nights ago, at our company’s holiday party, they announced their engagement.”

He powers through Niall’s expression of shock and poorly-concealed pity as he wraps up his sad, little story. “And everything I mistakenly thought was mine was taken from me in one single moment.”

They stay silent for a moment. Liam needs to let the words sink in, both for himself and the man sitting across from him. Niall, who was a stranger only hours ago and is now a friend. His silence is no doubt meant to give Liam a moment to breathe before moving forward to dissect his pain.

Then, “You deserve more.” He says it quietly, sincerely.

Liam chuckles bitterly, no humor in it at all. “I’ve been telling myself that for a very long time.”

“You should have listened,” Niall says, smiling softly.

“I know that now. I just...I couldn’t give it up when I thought there was still even a fraction of a chance that we could be happy. But now, all I can think about is how alone I felt in that room, looking up at who I thought was the love of my life, standing on a stage, wrapped around a girl he promised he wouldn’t choose.”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you. You weren’t wrong to try. I hope you know that. Hope is never a mistake.”

“You’re just full of award-winning lines, aren’t you?” Liam says, wiping at a tear before it can fall, so incredibly thankful for his kind words.

“Just being honest, mate,” Niall says, lightly punching his shoulder, no force behind it. “There is one thing I can’t figure out, though.”

Liam sips at his wine. “What’s that?”

Niall pierces him with a serious gaze, but there’s a glint in his eye hinting at mischief. “In the movies, we have two types of lovers. Those who break the hearts and those who get their hearts broken. You’re clearly not the first type. You’re too good for that. But what I can’t figure out is how the ones who get their hearts broken never can see their own worth until the end. Even when all the movies in the world tell your side of the story. Even with everyone rooting for you. You’ve fallen into a classic trap, I’m afraid.”

What he’s saying is so meaningful, and the knowing smile on his face does nothing to detract from his words. “So looks to me like we’ve both got jobs to do of picking ourselves up off the floor, yeah? Going after what we deserve?”

Liam laughs at Niall’s pushiness, a real, honest laugh, so refreshing after the tears. “I’ve been going to therapy for my entire adult life, and nothing has ever made so much sense.”

Niall chuckles, raising his glass for another toast, clinking it against Liam’s before downing the rest of his wine. “I could say the same thing. Do you know what we’re looking for?”

“More wine?” Liam teases.

“No,” Niall says, his blue eyes shining in the light of the lamp above their table, little lines popping around them as he laughs joyfully. “What we need is a little gumption.”


	4. Chapter 4

**\- Harry -**

The sun isn’t blinding him like it usually does so early in the morning. That’s the first thought Harry has upon waking. The second is of the warm body pressed against his back. The third is of just how much trouble he’s landed himself in. And the fourth is that he doesn’t really care as long as Louis is breathing gently into his hair, as long as his fingers are tapping out a soft, unconscious rhythm on his chest, as long as his feet are keeping Harry’s warm.

He feigns sleep, wholly unwilling to give this up even one second earlier than he has to. He does truly doze off a few times, lulled back into dreams by the slow, even movement of Louis’ chest against his back, only to be pulled back anytime he murmurs sweet little nothings in his sleep.

Eventually, Louis wakes, sniffling quietly and nuzzling into Harry’s neck. Harry smiles and turns to face him to finally see those blue eyes he’s been longing to see since he first opened his own. If he thought waking in Louis’ arms was lovely, there’s really no way of describing this. Of gazing into Louis’ eyes, so earnest and happy, bright with the morning sun, both of them foregoing speech for now, letting their fingertips say everything they might need to in this moment.

It’s safe and easy, being with Louis, letting himself touch and be touched in return. Like everything else with Louis, it feels like what he didn’t know he needed but recognized the instant their eyes met. It’s all so different than anything he’s had before, anyone.

“Hi,” Louis murmurs finally, breaking the morning silence. His smile is soft and sleepy, his hair messy and absolutely perfect. He’s beautiful.

“Hi,” Harry whispers, something that sounds a lot like love soaking the word.

Louis doesn’t seem to mind. “You snore a bit,” he says, running his thumb over Harry’s bottom lip.

Harry breathes out a laugh, stretching his limbs, but only enough as he can without leaving Louis’ embrace. “So I’ve been told. Sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” Louis says, reaching up to run a hand through Harry’s unruly curls, pushing them back from his face. “I’ve a habit of waking up during the night. Actually put me back to sleep, I think.”

Harry leans forward and kisses him. No buildup, no warning, no reason. Louis doesn’t hesitate, smiling against his mouth as he tries to kiss back. It’s soft, but urgent. Still meaningful in the light of day. Harry’s heart beats wildly in his chest, his cheeks heating up when Louis moves his palm to Harry’s chest and has to feel its chaotic rhythm.

They kiss, and they kiss, and they kiss, only giving up the other for brief moments when the need for oxygen becomes overwhelming. Then, as Harry moves in again, Louis says, “I’m afraid I need to get out of bed now.” Harry can’t help the pout that forms on his face, and Louis kisses him once and giggles, the sound like a melody of strings in a spring meadow. “I do actually have somewhere to be soon.” Another kiss. “Breakfast first, though?”

Harry relents with a smile and a few more kisses, trying his very hardest but failing to convince this lovely man to stay in bed all day.

“You’re very cute in the morning,” Louis says, slipping out from under the covers, taking his warmth with him. Then he walks to the door and opens it, only sparing one teasing glance back toward the bed before he’s gone.

Harry follows his lead after taking a minute for himself, a minute mostly consisting of smiling into his pillow and smelling Louis’, of trying to convince himself that this isn’t all a huge disaster. He throws on a pair of boxers and heads into the kitchen. He fiddles with the tea kettle, having absolutely no idea what he’s supposed to do, only blushing a little in embarrassment when Louis steps into his space and takes over with a soft, teasing smile. “It helps to fill it with water, Hazza.”

Harry turns around, content to watch him dance around in the kitchen. The second he gets his eyes on Louis’ face, specifically on the chunky, square glasses resting on his nose, he loses his breath. He knows his own smile is brighter than his earlier, sleepy ones when Louis turns around and cocks an eyebrow. “Get it all out, then,” he teases. He doesn’t seem to be truly offended, his dare more playful than worried.

Harry steps toward him until he’s close enough to kiss and does just that, Louis’ glasses sliding up his nose. “I love them,” he says honestly. “Very sexy.”

“Doubtful,” Louis says with a chuckle. “I lost a contact lens last night. Not sure how. Meant to ask a tall, curly lad if he might have any idea what could’ve happened.”

“It’s a mystery, I suppose.”

“Mhm,” Louis hums, stepping around him to continue preparing their morning tea. He unwraps two muffins they found at the grocery store and takes a bite of his own as the water comes to a boil. They eat in silence, each watching the other with open curiosity.

Truthfully, Harry thought it would be different when they woke up in the morning. Maybe a little less energy sparking between them, maybe his heart wouldn’t ache when Louis offered that one particular smile that makes it so hard to breathe, maybe his mind would be a bit clearer to see that this is a complicated situation promised to deliver heartbreak.

But it’s not like that. It’s not the same, either. It’s worse. It’s stronger, whatever the hell this is running through Harry’s veins, the tightness in his chest that announces itself every time his brain reminds him how impossible this all is, the feelings that hurt all the more when he convinces himself he can see them mirrored in Louis’ eyes.

They sip at their tea and pick at their muffins, and the tension gradually changes into something not quite as pleasant. It’s clear neither of them knows what to do or what to say, where to go from here. They stay quiet, and although it’s still comfortable, the atmosphere suddenly feels too fragile to survive much more of this.

Louis’ phone comes to life on the countertop where he must have left it last night. The loud, incessant ringing surprises them both, both of them jumping at the intrusion. Harry looks down instinctively, mindlessly, to see _Jay_ written across the screen. Jay could be literally anyone, Harry knows that logically, but he can’t help the pang of jealousy that rises inside of him when he lets his mind wander.

Louis looks between the phone and Harry, his eyes darting back and forth a few times before he picks it up. “I’m sorry, I need to get this,” he says, offering Harry an apologetic smile before walking toward the front door. He’s only got on a t-shirt and flannel pyjama pants. He’s certainly not dressed for the snow, but he steps outside anyway. “Hi, darling,” he hears Louis say in a bright, happy voice before the door closes between them.

Harry scolds himself for feeling as if he has any right to have all of Louis to himself, but his heart clings to the hope that maybe, just maybe, he can have just a piece that’s all his own. Louis had said last night that he never does this, that he doesn’t...what? Have sex with near strangers? Sleep in their arms, hold them through the night? Fall in love? His mind is frantic with questions. Who is Jay? That could be a man’s name or a woman’s name. He doesn’t know if Louis is strictly gay. Does Louis call everyone darling? He’s probably freezing out there. Who was so important, what is such a secret, that he couldn’t have the conversation inside. What did he not want Harry to hear?

Before Harry can lose all traces of his sanity, Louis rushes back inside, slamming the door a little too forcefully behind him. “Freezing out there,” he says casually, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

Harry nods and offers a sad excuse for a smile. He knows Louis notices, though he doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t offer any sort of explanation to ease Harry’s anxiety, his growing fear that maybe last night wasn’t as special to him as he made it out to be in the heat of the moment.

Honestly, he needs to get a grip. This isn’t a fucking Hallmark holiday movie. But the thought of being that unimportant makes his stomach twist in a knot. And he knows in one single moment, watching Louis struggle to find the right words or any words at all, that he’s going to do what he always does. He’s going to give up what he wants before it can hurt him. He’s going to let go before he’s the one being let go of. He can’t stop himself.

“So,” he starts, trying not to wince at how his own tone of voice has already changed. “Last night was great.”

Louis looks up at him, confusion in his eyes. “Yeah,” he replies. “It was…” He stands a little straighter then, the tension in the room palpable. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t want to do it, but it’s the only way to make this even the least bit easier. He knew this was impossible from the start, knew it would hurt, knew this was a dangerous gambit. But he couldn’t resist the way those blue eyes sparkled with kindness and mischief, the way Louis’ lips had tasted of spicy wine and desire, the way he’d felt like home in this strange place , as much as a person can feel like home.“I leave in less than two weeks, Louis.”

Something dark flickers in Louis’ eyes. He understands now. He knows what Harry is doing. “How many times are you going to remind me of that? Your insistence that I not forget it borders on cruel.” He looks conflicted, like he’s trying to make it sound like a joke but can’t quite get there.

Harry feels awful. But this is the only choice they have. It’s way too complicated. This hurts, watching Louis pretend to be okay, wishing he could kiss him like he had just minutes ago, unthinkingly, as if he had the right. But this will be easier in the long run, for the both of them. He has to protect himself, too.

“I just don’t see how this could work,” Harry says, genuinely trying his hardest to make the words sound as gentle as possible.

“If this is about the call--”

“It’s not about anything, Lou. It’s just...all of this is so complicated.”

“My life _is_ complicated,” he says hesitantly, almost on a whisper.

Harry swallows past the rock in his throat and says as evenly as he can manage, “You really don’t have to do this.”

“Harry, listen. What I’m trying to say is--”

“Louis,” Harry interrupts him, unable to hear whatever it is he'll say next. He knows one word could push him over the edge. He knows himself, he knows he would stay. But he can't let himself do this, can't let himself fall this hard. So he lies. “I’m not going to fall in love with you.”

Louis flinches at his words, taking a step back. After a moment seemingly frozen in time, he pushes his glasses up from where they’ve slipped down his nose and crosses his arms at his chest. He’s closing in on himself, and Harry wants to cry. But he knows that’s not even a possibility. He’s cursed, meant to play the cold, unfeeling one.

“Alright, then,” Louis says. He lets out a slightly manic laugh, his eyes just a bit too wide for his smile to look sincere. He’s just trying to hold himself together. Harry feels like a monster. He just keeps reminding himself that this is the best decision. Louis won’t even remember him in a week’s time.

“Straight to the point. I’m…” he hesitates, searching for something in Harry’s eyes. “I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time.” He moves further into the house, toward the bedroom, presumably to gather his things and leave. The thought of never seeing him again makes Harry feel sick, makes him want to take back everything he’s just said and tell him the truth, no matter how much pain might be hiding behind that decision.

He doesn’t say anything, just remains paralyzed in the kitchen, the tightness in his chest and his throat threatening to close completely never turning into tears that might fix anything, no matter how hard he might try.

Louis returns with an armful of clothes, the ones Harry had the pleasure of removing the night before, and grabs his coat, shoving his feet into his boots awkwardly. He leans over the counter, reaching for his mug, and drinks the rest of his tea before offering a smile, hurt only barely hidden in his eyes. “Guess this is goodbye, then.”

Harry wants to fall through the floor, descend into Hell where he belongs for hurting this kind, soft, beautiful man.

“Goodbye, Louis Tomlinson,” he says, the pressure in his chest excruciatingly painful now.

Louis smirks humorlessly and opens the door, stepping out into the cold once again. Harry follows him to close the door behind him as he goes, but before he can do so, Louis pulls him into a tight hug. It feels like the end of something perfect, something he’d never wish to end at all. It isn’t a happy embrace, but it’s still warm and Louis still smells like a sprinkle of cinnamon. Then he pulls away before Harry can catch his breath and walks backward down the narrow path leading from the gate. “Goodbye, Harry Styles,” he says, so quietly Harry almost misses it.

Louis lets himself past the gate and walks down the lane without another word, without another glance. And Harry is left alone, just as he had foolishly planned, to wonder just what the actual _fuck_ he was thinking.

**\- Liam -**

Liam wakes to a strange buzzing sound filling the house, a disturbance he can’t understand in his sleep-blurry mind. He nearly falls out of bed before hurrying to the foyer, his only coherent thought being that it must be originating from the speaker box located there.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he jabs his fingers at various buttons, wishing only for the buzzing to stop. “Hello?” he asks in frustration.

“Uh, Liam? It’s Zayn.”

_Oh._

“Hi,” he manages, painfully aware of what a mess he is at the moment.

“Sorry, it is still early, isn’t it? Did I wake you?”

“Yeah, that’s okay, though. What’s up?”

“Have you been to the beach yet?”

He hasn’t. He’s only seen it from the elaborate balcony facing the water. Some sweet kind of peaceful happiness erupts in his chest, extinguishing any sign of fatigue. “Are you asking because you want to take me?”

There’s a moment of silence, and Liam hopes it’s from nervousness. That Zayn might be shaking, too. That he can feel this, too. Then, “Only if you want to go. If not, that’s definitely not my reason.”

Liam exhales a breathy giggle, letting Zayn hear the tailend of it as he presses down on the button again. “Come in. I’ll be ready in five.”

He presses the key for the gate and hears it come to life with a smooth, mechanical buzzing. He runs up the stairs to the bedroom and throws on a pair of swim shorts and a vest before rushing to the loo to try to tame his unruly hair. It’s not very long, but it’s thick, so he wakes up with the most ridiculous bed head literally every morning. Zayn would run out screaming if he saw this disaster.

He brushes his teeth and gargles a bit of mouthwash for good measure, trying not to spit it out on a shriek when he hears the door slam downstairs. “Hurry up, you silly Brit! Daylight’s wasting!” Zayn hollers, his bright, clear voice ringing in the open air.

“Coming!” Liam shouts, grabbing a mostly empty rucksack and throwing it over his shoulder as he jogs down the stairs. “Should I grab anything? Do we need food?”

“I made sandwiches,” Zayn announces,” holding up a rather large cooler by its strap. “Turkey and cheese. I have water and potato chips, but if you want fruit or something, you’ll have to add that yourself.”

“Not a health nut, then?” Liam teases.

“I’m not that bad, I swear,” Zayn laughs. “I’m just not that good, either.”

Liam tucks two towels into his bag and locks the door behind them, and they wander down to the shore by way of what would technically be Harry’s backyard. It’s absolutely absurd.

They walk side-by-side and it’s quiet and weighted, but then Zayn dashes ahead, running wildly toward the lapping waves, shrieking like a madman. Liam chokes on a laugh and follows him with as much coordination as he can muster with his heart beating so wildly.

When he finally catches up, Zayn has already tossed the cooler onto the sand and waded into the cool water. He splashes water everywhere, soaking Liam’s vest, and absolutely forcing him to throw his backpack down out of the reach of the tide, and run toward him in retaliation.

“You’re a bloody menace, you know?!” Liam wheezes, his breath short from exertion and laughter, from trying not to swallow water in his mouth permanently stuck up in a smile.

Zayn laughs and dives backward, deeper into the blue, leaving Liam reeling in the sight of his bare torso, his shirt tossed carelessly on the sand getting farther and farther away.

They wrestle under the cool cover of ocean, and drift out as far as they dare, as far as the growing waves allow. They touch more than they should, fingers dancing through the water until they land on slippery skin, as they circle one another like sharks, Zayn’s smile always dangerous, mischievous.

They eat the sandwiches Zayn packed and lay out their towels for a bit of sunbathing. Liam’s vest had to come off eventually, and Liam tries to hide his joy every time Zayn stares a little too long. They lie together on the sand, two bright, parallel lines cutting through the surface of the beach. Liam lets his head fall to the side, lets his eyes explore every tiny detail of Zayn’s face, the darkness of his eyelashes, the perfect arch of his pink lips, the strong angle of his jaw.

Zayn catches him staring and offers a tempting smile warmer than the sun. “Good day,” he murmurs, stretching his limbs like a lazy cat, his golden skin pulled tight over smooth muscle. He looks good enough to eat.

Liam nods, copying his movement before settling back down on his towel to allow himself the treat of a quick sun-lit snooze. “Really good day.”

~~~

Liam is content. Distracted by delightful company, numbed a bit by the wine swimming in his veins. He’s more at peace than he has been in a long time.

The massive table in his temporary home’s dining room is covered in food, mismatched, colorful casserole dishes and platters arranged in no real order. Niall is animatedly recounting a tale of his earliest days in the industry, his guests Kate and Jude listening and reacting just as they must have every other time they’ve heard the story.

Niall, with his big Irish heart, had brought them all together, had given Liam this gift of friendship, exclaiming that they all needed a holiday meal and a touch of celebration. When they’d all met, the three of them coming to Liam’s door in a jumbled heap of food and wine, Liam understood why this was the group Niall had chosen.

He doesn’t realize how distracted he is, really, until the doorbell rings, the sound pushing him out of his pondering and out of his chair. He shrugs when the conversation quiets enough to allow Niall to ask who could be at the door.

His heart slams against his chest upon opening the door, revealing who’s standing on the other side of it. “Hi,” he breathes unsteadily, embarrassing himself immediately. “What are you doing here?”

Zayn nervously glances back and forth between Liam’s surprised gaze and some other point of focus Liam’s pretty sure doesn’t exist. “The gate was open.” Liam winces at his own question, the way he’d sounded as if he wasn’t absolutely thrilled to see those amber eyes again.

“No, I don’t…” he tries to correct the situation, “I don’t mean…” He’s really struggling, his heart still pounding against his ribcage, like it’s trying to leap out of his chest and run to Zayn. He steps forward and closes the door. It only feels right to be alone. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid you’ve surprised me. I’m making a fool of myself, aren’t I?”

Zayn smiles, his white teeth shining in the soft glow of the Christmas lights. “You aren’t,” he says quietly.

Liam tries again, hoping for curious rather than dismissive this time. “What are you doing here?”

Liam hadn’t noticed the way Zayn’s arms were awkwardly bent behind his back, his hands hidden suspiciously, until he stands up straight, pulling his hands between them to reveal his secret. He holds out a small bouquet of flowers, daisies and mums and baby’s breath, waiting for Liam to take them with a hesitant smile. “I don’t know,” he says, an answer to the question Liam had already forgotten he’d asked. “I was a little too nervous to come up with a reason.” He seems to gain a bit of confidence, and Liam is sure it has something to do with the blush spreading over his own cheeks. “Just wanted to see you again.”

Liam can’t help but smile brightly, his every thought, all of his fondness, no doubt showing on his face. But he doesn’t care. This gorgeous and very sweet near-stranger just came here with flowers and a nervous smile, just to see him. Liam can hardly believe any of this is real. What kind of fairytale nonsense?

They’re just staring at each other a step outside of the house, lively on the inside, beautifully quiet beyond the door, the two of them content to exist near the other for a brief, eternal moment in time. Liam finally breaks the spell, just to quell any possibility that Zayn might feel he’s unwelcome. “Would you like to come inside?”

Zayn clears his throat and seems to have some sort of silent argument with himself when Liam opens the door and the soft sound of happy, high voices drifts through the air. “I’m sorry,” he says, a furrow in his brow. “Do you have company? I didn’t mean to intru--”

Liam cuts him off, stopping his train of thought before it can run off its tracks. “You’re not. Please come in.”

Zayn nods tentatively and follows him inside, watching with a joyful smile and rosy cheeks as Liam drops his flowers in a vase conveniently empty in the foyer. They move together into the dining room where Niall is still regaling his guests with wild, hilarious tales of close calls and industry secrets more shocking than his own.

Zayn steps forward, and Liam watches his every movement, the way his eyes light up as he introduces himself, the way his lips move as he swallows all of the air in the room, the way his dark lashes cast shadows across his cheekbones sharp enough to cut, soft enough for Liam to wonder what they’d feel like under his fingers, against his lips. He offers casual greetings, and everyone in the room is instantly entranced, their enthusiasm for his presence igniting a flame of jealousy in Liam’s belly.

Niall finds his gaze through the small crowd and winks conspicuously, knowing exactly what he’s doing. Liam rolls his eyes good-naturedly, shooing him away. Instead, the menace glides toward them both, greeting Zayn with a hug he didn’t see coming, judging by his awkward giggles. He hugs him back, though, of course he does.

Liam feels so grateful. A little lost, nervous standing so close to a man he knows somehow could never be close enough. But grateful. For these two beautiful people of whose existence he wasn’t aware only a few days ago. For the delicious food and thoughtful company. For this hot, weird city where he feels at home for the first time in much too long. For the way Niall could have a twitch with how frequently he’s winking across the table at Liam, knowing full well Zayn can see him. For the way Zayn turns to him every time he so much as makes a sound, the way his laugh fills the room with the sound of tinkling bells, the way he really, actually listens to what Liam has to say. For the way his eyes sparkle too much for it to be a trick of the light, the way they shine a bit more when he looks at Liam.

He knows he’s making a mistake. He’s turning into more than it is. He knows the way Zayn’s eyes shine is probably due to the champagne. He knows he’s done this before. With Michael. With the one before him. And the one before him. He knows he shouldn’t rush, should stop these feelings before they become overwhelming. He knows this will end in heartbreak. But he can’t bring himself to care about the consequences when Zayn leans over into his space and whispers in his ear, “I don’t get it,” in response to a joke Niall told that Liam didn’t even hear over the static in his ears. He doesn’t mind when their hands brush together between their plates, neither of them pulling away for too long.

He feels somewhat guilty for comparing him to Michael, but it’s automatic. He was with him, or pretending to be with him, for so long. Sometimes it feels as if it’s all he knows. Ducking around dimly lit corners, spending the whole night hoping for just one more secret kiss before the man who was supposed to be his waltzed off into the night without him, remembering not to smile too fondly or laugh too loudly or look too closely.

But with Zayn, it’s different. He encourages it. He comes alive when Liam laughs. It seems almost silly, a childish imagining of what he wants but isn’t really there. As if he’s hallucinating something into existence for his own validation. But he does. Liam can’t deny that, can’t chalk it up to his own longing. Liam laughs, and Zayn watches him, his own smile never leaving his lips.

Michael wasn’t fun. At least, not around other people. He was always scared, jumping away anytime Liam accidently touched his arm. His eyes were never so full of joy as Zayn’s have been since Liam met him. Zayn is lively and beautiful and brilliant, stirring up some kind of shimmery quality in the air with his lovely voice, challenging the candle flames with the brightness in his eyes. He doesn’t cower when Liam touches him. He moves closer.

Liam rips his gaze away when he realizes he’s looked nowhere else in several minutes, blushing furiously when he finds Niall staring with a wicked little smirk on his face.

“So, Zayn,” Niall quips, and Liam knows he’s up to no good. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Liam could melt into the floor, a puddle of humiliation and frayed nerve endings. He sticks around for Zayn’s response. But before he hears the words, he sees something more painful. For the first time, Zayn doesn’t look happy. He looks sad, regretful. Embarrassed even.

He wants to ask what’s wrong, to comfort him, can’t stand the nervous expression that’s overtaken his smile. But Zayn speaks first. “No, I’m not. I’ve, uh...I’ve never been in a serious relationship.”

_Oh. That’s...what does that mean?_

“Never?” Niall asks, surprised as well.

Zayn shakes his head slowly, a bitter smile forming on his lips, not nearly as beautiful, as inviting, as his real one. “Never. I guess there’s no reason to lie about it. I’ve never been in love.” He turns to Liam for a fraction of a second, but he doesn’t linger. “Suppose that might put me in a bad light.”

Niall attempts to ease his burden, but Liam’s head is swimming with this new information. There are voices still, but they’re blurred, the conversation now held in a vacuum.

“I just...don’t do relationships,” Liam hears in slow motion. He tries not to visibly react, knows he’s doing a shit job of it when Zayn turns in his seat and reaches for his hand. Liam lets him, still revels in his gentle touch even now.

It’s just that he knew this would happen. He knew he’d be given a reason not to trust, not to try, not to believe. But knowing it would come did nothing to soften the blow.

Zayn is tense beside him, anxiety rolling off of him like waves. Liam doesn’t understand why he’d be nervous, why he’d be gazing at Liam apologetically. He did nothing wrong.

Liam just isn’t enough. Why would someone as perfect as Zayn ever settle for anyone or anything? He shouldn’t have to. He shouldn’t change his whole life for someone so broken.

He’d almost let himself imagine what it’d be like, and the thought of the splintered dream, fractured with impossibility, brings tears to his eyes, heat rising in his chest and to his cheeks, breathing a thing of the past. He shouldn’t be surprised that this isn’t any different, that Zayn isn’t any different. But it felt different. It really did.

He stands from his chair and heads for the door, the need for fresh air choking him as he rips himself away from the dream that was Zayn’s hand touching his own. The stone is cool in the evening darkness as he sits, leaning against one of the large pillars holding up the balcony above the front door. This house is really and truly just ridiculous. He loves it.

A light wind blows through the leaves of the palm trees lining the path before the house, bringing a warm scent to Liam’s senses. Sun and grass and vanilla, a hint of sunscreen lotion traveling all the way from the beach.

He’d felt he could stay here. In truth, he still does. It would be difficult, of course, uprooting his life completely to start over somewhere new. With no money and no job and no house and no friends and no one to love. But it would be an adventure. He’s never had one of those.

And for just a moment, it felt like maybe he was finding a few of those things already, making his highly improbable dream more believable, more tangible. But he knows now, has been reminded, that this is going to happen no matter where he escapes to, no matter who takes Michael’s place, no matter where he lives or what he does. This is simply what happens for him. He can’t hold on to anything. To anyone. And though it might be brighter than the stars, the light in Zayn’s eyes can’t change that.

Zayn stumbles through the doorway as if called by Liam’s rumination, and he looks a little glassy-eyed from the celebratory drinks, but mostly he looks sorry. Liam has no idea what that means. He only knows this is the end of his hoping, the end of his pining for this man he only ever wished to know as more than a stranger.

“Heading out then?” he whispers, not quite able to force his throat to work properly.

Zayn nods, letting his head hang so that he’s looking at the ground as if it’s suddenly become interesting. “You’re not stupid,” he says, throwing Liam completely offtrack.

“Thank you?” Liam responds, confused, not sure what Zayn is doing.

Zayn finally looks up and catches Liam’s gaze, “As much as I think we both had the hope of something. Happening. Between us,” he admits and accuses, his words in a nervous staccato rhythm. “I’m sorry I can’t be what you need. Even for the short time that you’re here.”

The wind has been knocked out of Liam’s lungs for the fifth or sixth or tenth time tonight at everything being confessed, everything he’s being told he knows. He nods because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you with my honesty. It was never my intention. I just didn’t know my... feelings about love...were something that needed confessing until I witnessed your reaction.”

After a moment, Liam forces words from his mouth, anything at all to erase the worried expression painted on Zayn’s angelic features. “You are lovely,” he says, speaking honestly, needing Zayn to know how absolutely, heart-wrenchingly beautiful he is, his eyes and his lips and his laugh and his heart and his soul.

Zayn blushes hard, his eyelashes fluttering as he glances down in surprised embarrassment. “I feel selfish for asking, but I…” he hesitates, looking up once again as he gathers his words. “I’d still like to see you while you’re here. If you’d be interested.”

Liam surprises himself by nodding, smiling even. Because despite everything, he does want that, regardless of what it might mean for his heart. “I’d like that.”

Zayn smiles back at him, cautiously overjoyed at the permission given. And then he takes a step closer and kisses Liam on the cheek. The universe implodes upon itself, Liam’s insides turning to molten lava when Zayn’s dark scruff tickles his face. His breath hitches, and Zayn jerks when he hears it, knowing he’s done the exact thing he shouldn’t have.

“I’ve made it weird again, haven’t I?” he says, perhaps trying for teasing, but falling short. “I’m sorry. I’ll...I’m gonna go. Please call me.”

Liam doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, but he can’t say no. _How much harm could another week do?_ he thinks, an obvious act of self-sabotage. He nods silently, letting the energy that refuses to stop coursing between them say what he can’t.

Zayn turns back to flash another timid smile in his direction when a heavy gust of wind nearly knocks him flat on the ground. He quickly steadies himself once more, and a small laugh escapes his lips, just loud enough for Liam to hear from the stone he’s somehow found his feet glued to.

“Santa Anas!” he yells, shaky and frantic, like his voice won’t cooperate any better than Liam’s, his pitch jumping about as soon as he gets too loud to control it. He walks backward to his shiny, red sports car, keeping his eyes on Liam as if such a move doesn’t go against everything they’d just discussed.

And Liam will have plenty of time to berate himself later, when he’s left to an empty mansion and a head filled to the top with champagne and self-loathing.

But for now, he waves it all aside, and says back with a wobbly smile and a failing heart, “Don’t blow away.”


	5. Chapter 5

**\- Harry -**

Harry is an idiot. A complete fucking moron evidently intent on ruining his own life. An utter imbecile who sent the most wonderful, lovely, beautiful man away simply because he didn’t have the courage to try. Sure, this is a complicated situation -or was before he threw it out the window- but difficult doesn’t mean impossible.

But Louis is gone now. He’d no doubt left and gone on to do whatever it is he claimed was taking him from Harry’s arms this morning, off to wherever it was he needed to be. And Harry has gone nowhere, done nothing. He’s thought about leaving, about flying back to L.A. out of pettiness, outrage at his own stupid actions, his complete inability to ever do anything right. He’s perused the internet, mindlessly searching for anything happening in London that might be worth getting out of bed. Nothing caught his eye. Nothing seemed as enchanting as Louis.

He knows how pathetic he must seem, knows he must look as bad as he feels. He can see the irony in traveling halfway around the world just to lie in another bed, miserably without love or anything that might masquerade as such. He feels too empty to care. Louis’ presence, his loud laughter and passionate kisses and gentle touch filled the whole house, the whole city really, with something that ceased to exist the moment he was through the gate.

Eventually, he forces himself out of bed and into the tub, allowing himself the luxury of a warm, scented bath even if he doesn’t deserve the comfort. Upon returning to the living room, a towel wrapped around his hips just like the night he met Louis, he realizes he’s quite hungry, having not eaten since morning. The sun has already set, and the sky’s announcement that he’s slept half the day away urges him into action.

He can’t stomach the thought of eating anything Louis had picked out for them at the store. He can’t help but feel that all of it was meant for them both. The stocked fridge is just a huge reminder of his mistake.

So he leaves. He bundles up in a puffy coat, concerned with warmth over fashion as he no longer has anyone to impress. Boots and gloves and a scarf complete his ridiculous ensemble, and he pulls a beanie down over his ears for good measure. Maybe he can hide inside of it. He isn’t so sure about driving in this snow, so he walks down the long, winding path and onto the road that connects the cottage with civilization.

A pub comes into view not too terribly long into his trek, the Britishness of it laughably stereotypical, but lovely all the same. It looks warm, soft light behind the frosted windows, the sound of jolly conversation drifting through the chilly air.

He could use a drink. Something strong. At the very least, he needs to get a hold of himself if only to properly enjoy the rest of his holiday. Alcohol’s got to be the way of accomplishing such a feat.

He pushes open the heavy wooden door and stumbles inside as a gust of wind knocks him forward. The hostess takes his coat and accessories and directs him to a high-top table set against a far wall. It’s a nice spot, in a room full of lovers and friends and hopeful dates but enough away from the action to observe and not be seen.

He orders a whiskey. And another one. And another.

He’ll be tripping over his own feet getting out of here, he knows. He orders food to try and negate some of the drunkenness, and a dish comes that doesn’t match his expectations but is delicious. He’s just begun to deliberate whether his next request for his server will be for another drink or for his bill when the world stops spinning. Or maybe it begins to spin in the opposite direction. Or maybe it just imploded and Harry is now wading through the ashes, drunk and dizzy and terrified.

Louis is sitting across the room. Staring at him. He doesn’t know how long he’s been there, how long he’s been looking. But his expression is not what Harry would have predicted if he’d had a thought that Louis might be here. He doesn’t look angry, or offended that Harry is here, a place to which Louis has obviously laid claim. He mostly just looks confused, surprised.

Harry watches in horror as Louis removes himself from the company of friends and glides toward his table, trying but failing to remember how his lungs are meant to work in the face of such agony. He swallows his fear, his regret, and hopes Louis doesn’t hear the cartoonish gulping sound as he comes to a halt, sinking his hands into the pockets of his jeans awkwardly.

“Hey,” he says, a bit too quietly to be heard in the loud pub. Harry wouldn’t have known he’d said anything if his eyes weren’t glued to his mouth.

“Hi,” he responds, pushing the word past the rock threatening to destroy his throat. “I’m so sorry.” He isn’t sure if that’s what he meant to say, but it’s what he should have said anyway.

“Oh,” Louis falters a bit, “that’s...it’s okay. I, uh...I get why you did...what you did.”

Harry knew he was drunk, but this very unexpected conversation has left him holding back a fit of nausea, the thoughts in his head swimming in a thick syrup of confusion.

“I am sorry, though. I’m sorry for hurting you.”

Louis nods pensively, eyebrows furrowed and lips pulled together in the cutest of pouts. “D’ya wanna get out of here? It’s quite loud.”

Harry nods over to where Louis had wandered over from. “Don’t you need to get back to your party?”

Louis blushes. It’s barely noticeable in the dim light of the pub, but Harry catches it, feels like puking when his heart soars at his ability to affect Louis like this. He doesn’t have the right.

“Told me mates I was leaving. When I saw you. Suppose that was a hell of an assumption.”

Harry nods, waving away the desire to tease him.

Before he can respond, Louis continues, “Are you going to force me to go back, then? Make an arse of myself?”

Harry doesn’t want to acknowledge it, out of fear of where it could lead, but there’s an undeniable twinkle in Louis’ eye. “No,” he submits, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips as Louis waves over his server. Harry pays his bill and tries his very best to follow the straight line Louis walks to the door.

He fails almost immediately, dropping to the ground in a heap of limbs that always seem just as gangly as they were during his awkward teenage years when he’s had too much to drink. Louis must hear him grunt or the sound of his body hitting the ground, because he’s back in a second, hauling him to his feet, dressing him and guiding him out of the pub with soft words and softer hands.

They’re back at the cottage in no time, and Harry realizes he must have walked all this way. But he can’t remember a single moment. He finds himself inside the house, the warmth being the main indication that something’s changed. His thoughts are a mess, none of them sticking in his head long enough to make sense.

He’s only aware of where he is in the moment, each location, each piece of the journey before it’s muddled for a moment then disappearing completely. What he is aware of, consistently, in every piece of the puzzle, is Louis. Warm palms gripping his shaky arms to guide him through the front door and down the hallway. A gentle, lilting voice encouraging him to keep walking, reassuring him that the ground will feel more solid in the morning. 

The light shove at Harry’s chest to help him collapse upon the bed. A hitch of breath and a following sigh when Harry asks him to stay. And the touch of his cool skin as he fits Harry’s mold beneath the sheets.

~~~

There’s a cloudiness in Harry’s head when he wakes, and cold air on his back, unprotected with the lack of a warm body against his own. It takes him a moment or two to remember the events of the night before, to remember that there should be a bright, lovely man sleeping against him. But there isn’t.

After nearly falling out of bed, he stops in the bathroom before going for a glass of water in the kitchen. He’s wearing boxers and a t-shirt, and he has no memory of changing, but he assumes Louis must have helped him before he crawled into the bed. He doesn’t look as haggard as he feels, no doubt only due to a deep, dreamless sleep after his agonizingly long day.

He hesitates as he wanders into the small kitchen and sees Louis leaning against the counter, sipping at a cup of tea. Harry really wants some.

“Cuppa?” Louis nods toward another mug steaming on the countertop, and Harry breathes a sigh of relief at the invitation.

“Good morning,” he says, when Harry doesn’t respond. Harry chances a glance up, hoping for a smile, so delighted to find one spreading gradually across Louis’ face. “You look like shit.”

Harry barks out a laugh, can’t really feel slighted when the words came from such a pretty smile. “Your hair is messed up,” he tries in weak retaliation.

“Yeah, but you like when my hair’s messed up. You said so last night.”

Harry’s stomach drops at the accusation, realizes he really doesn’t have any way of knowing what else he might have said when he was drunk off his ass in the freezing cold. He doesn’t have the courage to ask when he’s still clad in plaid boxers and wool socks, standing in a barely familiar kitchen with a man he can’t quite convince himself he doesn’t want to keep.

“Did we..?” he asks instead, noticing for the first time the boxers he’d worn under his jeans the night before, the ones he’d assumed Louis had helped him remove in his drunken haze, strewn haphazardly on the floor.

“No,” Louis says, his tone genuine and reassuring. “You were begging for it, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not one to fondle a man who’s drunk himself nearly unconscious.”

Heat hits Harry’s cheeks hard, embarrassment speeding through his every vein, sparking at his nerve endings. “ _ Jesus _ . Louis, I’m so sorry. It’s a terrible excuse, but I really was so  _ drunk _ , and--”

“Harry,” Louis stops his poor, rambling attempt at an excuse. “I’m just teasing you. Take a breath, mate.” He giggles, that same sweet melody that entranced Harry the moment they met, when he’d teased him for his uncouth nudity. “‘M sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

Harry steps closer then, Louis’ good mood lending him a little confidence. “You are such a shit, you know that?”

Louis nods, cheshire cat grin crawling onto his perfect, thin lips. “I’m aware.”

The mood isn’t right. This isn’t what it should still be like between them. Not after what Harry has done. He stops himself from taking it further, scared by how easy it would be.

“I asked you to stay.” It’s not a question. He remembers asking, the single plea hanging quietly in the air as he’d begged silently, the loudness in his head never reaching the air between them.

“So I stayed,” Louis answers simply, shrugging his shoulders.

Louis’ phone vibrates against the counter, rattling Harry’s half-drained mug, the same melody he hasn’t been able to get out of his head since the morning before. He looks down automatically, without any kind of intention. The ringtone is the same, but the name is different.  _ Charlotte _ , the screen reads.

Panic seizes his body at the parallel, of the memory of the phone ringing yesterday just before everything went to shit. Louis notices, and a look of guilt washes over his face, but he picks up the phone anyway and repeats his last performance, slipping out into the snow in pajama pants, away from Harry.

Harry knows he’s acting like an entitled brat. It’s not as if he hasn’t realized that. They hardly know each other. It’s not exactly strange that Louis would want to have private conversations. There’s just something about the look in his eyes when the calls come in, when he turns and walks away. It makes Harry feel like a secret, and that he’s not the only one. Everyone has their secrets, their skeletons, sure. But something is off.

Before he can work himself into an emotional lather, Louis pops back into the house, shivering a bit from the cold. “Would you like to have lunch with me?” he asks without preamble.

_ Yes _ , Harry wants to say,  _ Please don’t leave again. I couldn’t bear it. _

Instead, he questions it. Because, again, he’s an idiot. “You want to have lunch with me? Why?”

“Because I’m running out of reasons not to,” Louis quips, placing his hands on his hips like Harry is a stubborn child irritating his nerve. He might as well be. His smile grows a touch softer when he adds, “You also have the dumbest laugh I’ve ever heard in my life. And I’d like to hear more of it, if you can stop being ridiculous for the time it takes to have a nice meal.”

Harry can’t help it. He falls apart when Louis ridicules him, turns into a pile of mush looking into those eyes made of ocean and mischief. He nods, agreeing despite the nervous tension coiling in his gut at the implication. Then Louis laughs, high and bright, and he’s done fighting it.

Louis drives him into the city, raving the whole way about the delightful sandwiches to be shared at this hole-in-the-wall café. “They’re just massive, Haz!” he exclaims. And Harry really doesn’t care about the delicacies he’s being promised, despite the rumbling of his tummy. All he can keep in his head for more than two seconds is the way Louis is still calling him these silly little names that should be reserved for loved ones. Every time a “Haz” or “Hazza” escapes his lips, a shiver runs up Harry’s spine. Each time he lets slip “darling” or “love” in that strange, sweet accent, he could cry from the joy of it all.

The café is small but crowded, according to Louis very well-known by locals but a mystery to greedy tourists, “no offense intended.” Light jazz plays through speakers mounted on the brick walls, blending in seamlessly with the chatter of patrons and staff, with the clink of forks on ceramic plates and the thud of empty glasses being set down on tables to leave water marks with their condensation.

Louis was absolutely right. The food is incredible. They share a panini-style concoction of cheeses and grilled vegetables, just on the right side of greasy. Their meal is delicious, their drinks are just strong enough to cure Harry’s hangover, and the conversation is easy. Even when they get to topics generally not breached at light brunches.

They’ve fallen into a rhythm, the same one they’d mastered before Harry had his meltdown and almost ruined everything. Louis hadn’t let him, and Harry has never been more grateful for such stubbornness.

“So yeah, I’ve told you I’m a songwriter,” Louis says. “Used to perform here and there, but not anymore.”

“Why? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Louis takes a sip of his water, swallowing slowly, deliberately. “I, erm...I had a loss, I guess you could say. Was just too hard after that.”

Harry doesn’t know who he lost. But it doesn’t really matter. “I’m sorry.”

Louis smiles softly before taking one last bite of his half of their sandwich and throwing it down on his plate in defeat. “Thanks,” he says around a mouthful of food. “It’s alright actually. I always enjoyed the writing more, in all honesty. I’m still doing what I love.”

“It’s a great feeling, isn’t it?”

Louis nods, encouraging him to continue. “So what you love to do is make movie trailers then?”

“Yeah.” He feels his smile grow, knows he must be glowing. He really does love his job. It’s really been the only constant source of joy, of success and validation, in his life. And he’s really,  _ really _ good at it. They don’t pay him the big bucks for nothing.

“Gonna tell me any more about it?” Louis teases.

“I started as an assistant when I was eighteen and climbed my way up. Started my own company when I was twenty-four,” he informs, as if checking the accomplishments off on a list. “We do good work,” he says honestly. “I have a great team. I love my job.”

“You shine a little around the edges when you’re happy,” Louis says with a smile just shy of a smirk. It leaves Harry feeling exposed, and the knowing gleam in Louis’ eyes says he meant it.

“What about your family? Are you close?” Harry must grimace because Louis follows up his question with an apology. “Sorry, sore subject?”

“I’ll just do it fast,” Harry says, taking a deep breath and letting it blow past his lips in measured time as he sorts out his sordid tale.

Louis nods and doesn’t stop him. Perhaps he can sense that Harry really does want to share.

“I grew up in the same house all my life. I have a sister, Gemma. She’s absolutely lovely. Just the coolest girl you could ever hope to meet. She’s my best friend, always has been. Anyway, when Gemma was seventeen and I was thirteen, our parents sat us down at the kitchen table and calmly explained that they’d decided to get a divorce. Neither of us saw it coming. We’d always been the happy family. The normal ones. It took me a long time to realize that there aren’t normal families. So our dad left, moved from California to New York, and I can count the number of times I’ve seen him since on my hands. Gemma and I held each other every night for a year, and we cried and cried and  _ cried _ .”

He glances briefly at Louis’ face for just a moment, taking a second to breathe. “And one day, I told myself that I’d better toughen up. And I haven’t cried since.”

“You’ve not cried since you were fourteen?” Louis asks in awe. His shock is far from callous, his eyes still brimming with kindness, sympathy if not understanding.

“Nope. And I try,” he says with a humorless chuckle. “I really try. I just can’t.”

He lets his words settle over their uneaten bites of food, over his own skin he knows would be hot to the touch. His cheeks are burning.

Louis doesn’t disturb the silence for some time. Then, “We make a good match, I suppose.”

Moving swiftly past the implication of Louis’ words out of self-preservation, he attempts to mold his voice into a teasing tone, considering it a success when his voice only wobbles on the last word. “And why is that?”

“Well, because everything makes me cry,” Louis says, not at all embarrassed.

“That is not true,” Harry giggles, surprising himself with the lightness of it, the same lightness he can feel in his chest.

“No, it is!” Louis insists, laughing along. “It’s ridiculous actually. A cute dog,” he starts, beginning to count off tearjerkers on his outstretched fingers. “Pixar movies, pretty much any book I’ve ever read, a nice flower, Christmas cards.”

Harry can’t stop laughing, even when his cheeks burn with soreness from smiling. Even if Louis is exaggerating for Harry’s sake, he’s grateful. Any heaviness that remained in his heart from the complication of their circumstances or his own foolish actions has evaporated, leapt out of him in the face of Louis’ brilliance.

They leave after the alcohol has dissipated in their systems, laughing all the way home. Or the small cottage on the outskirts of London that Harry has begun to think of as home.

They laugh and talk about everything under the sun that isn’t the one thing they need to talk about the most. They watch  _ It’s a Wonderful Life _ , and Harry knows the only reason Louis isn’t crying is that he’s hardly taken his eyes off of him to actually watch any of it. They nibble at cookies at dinnertime, their rich lunch proving too filling for another meal.

They lie in bed, hesitant touches turning into longer ones as the hours pass them by. Not much is said. They’ve been talking all day. Now all there seems to be is a need for closeness, for acceptance of the very real fact that no matter how difficult, how disastrous it could be, this thing, whatever it is, whatever it’s meant to be, between them isn’t going away. They both know it.

It hurts. Like a dagger piercing his heart. But Louis’ skin is soft against his fingertips where they rest upon his chest. His throat bobs when he smiles, as if swallowing just for the sake of nervous movement. One of his eyes is a little squished with the pressure of his pillow, and the other closes to match it when he lets out quiet giggles. His hair is splayed out against the clean cotton like picked blades of grass, his fringe spiky and soft.

And his lips are gentle when he leans forward for kiss after kiss after kiss. He lingers, his nose brushing against Harry’s cheek like he can’t get enough of him. His hands draw senseless patterns over Harry’s arms, his bare chest when Louis’ had enough of his “bloody jumper” getting in the way.

He’s been forgiven. Louis has informed him of that with sweet promises pressed to chapped lips, with touches so light they tickle, his fingers dancing like lovers over every inch of him.

Harry starts to believe he might have fallen asleep after a few minutes of quiet stillness. His eyelashes flutter just over his cheekbones, as if in a dream. Harry has the thought to close his own eyes, to take this gift of simply resting beside him, their noses almost touching because neither one could manage to pull away after their last kiss.

But then Louis opens his eyes, hazy but still brilliantly blue, like a crystal clear lake under a cloudy sky. The beauty of him knocks the breath from Harry’s lungs, but it’s far from painful. He craves the breathlessness that comes with looking at him, at letting Louis see right back into him.

“What are you thinking about?” Louis asks, disturbing the peace to reach a hand up and tuck a curl behind Harry’s ear.

_ You. How much this hurts. How it should hurt more. The very real possibility that I’m falling in love with someone I can’t have. _

He doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he tries his very best to put it into words that don’t seem so heavy on his tongue, in the air between their kiss-red mouths. He can’t.

“Nothing,” he says. A whispered lie necessary for protecting any amount of self-preservation that might be left.

“Haz,” Louis reprimands gently, cautiously, knowingly.

“I’m leaving.” It’s not a secret, but this might as well be a priestly confession.

It’s more than a minute before Louis speaks again. It feels like a lifetime. “You don’t have to.” His voice is as quiet as the snow falling to the ground outside, small and timid and resigned behind his brave suggestion.

If Harry possessed the ability to cry, those tears would match his heart, tearing itself apart behind his skin and bones. “I have a life in California, Louis. A job and friends and sure, a fractured family, but a family nonetheless. I can’t just leave and never go back.”

“Just let me be selfish,” Louis says then, picking himself up from the bed to push Harry onto his back and crawl over him. “For one night. Let’s be selfish.”

The shift in energy should be surprising, but like everything else with Louis, it comes naturally. Easily, as if this is what they were meant to do all along, and Harry’s idea of what was to happen was simply incorrect. A misunderstanding so effortlessly rectified by Louis’ hands on his chest and his arms and his hips. With Louis’ breath on his lips, and his lips on his throat, and his throat covered in carefully placed bruises of its own.

If being so self-serving, so blissfully ignorant of everything but this piece of heaven he’s managed to drag down from the sky, is a sin, he’ll gladly burn.

But it doesn’t feel selfish. How could love ever be?

**\- Liam -**

Liam wakes the next morning to a frantic call from Niall. Or, well, maybe frantic isn’t the right word. Ecstatic perhaps. It’s just the way he is. Always excited about any little development in life.

“We’re going for a run!” he’d exclaimed, already doing just that judging by his heavy breathing. “I’m picking you up! Get your arse out of bed, Payne!”

Liam had laughed, tiredly but goodnaturedly, and done what he’d demanded, joining him for a light jog in the surprisingly already stifling heat of early morning. Their journey was set to a soundtrack of Liam convincing Niall yet again to agree to the gala to be thrown in his honor and Niall once again arguing against Liam’s own self-doubt that he’s worth a damn. They’ve really got the routine down.

The moment he gets back, before he can take a much needed shower, his phone rings again. He smiles when he reads the name on the bright screen.

“Louis!”

“Hey, you wanker!” Louis’ high voice chirps through the crackly connection. “Just wondering if you’re ever coming home!”

Liam laughs joyfully as he mindlessly prepares everything for his shower and the day ahead. “I’ll come back just for you, my love.”

“Yuck. Nevermind. Don’t want you here if you’re gonna wax poetic in me ear.”

“What have you been up to then? How’s everyone?”

“We’re alright, yeah. Actually wanted to tell you something. Kind of weird to say it out loud.” Liam isn’t sure if he should be worried, but Louis continues before his anxiety can build too much. “I, erm...I maybe, might’ve, sorta, kinda...met someone?”

“No way, man!” The weight in his chest falls away at the happy news. “That’s fantastic!”

“Thanks,” Louis giggles, honest-to-God giggles, and Liam can’t help but smile at the sound. Louis doesn’t laugh nearly enough nowadays. “He’s really lovely.”

“So is it serious then?”

Louis pauses for a moment, his lack of response leaving Liam to check the phone to make sure they’ve not disconnected. Then, “It’s not... _ not _ serious. It’s complicated.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything else from you, Lou,” he teases. He almost regrets it when Louis doesn’t have a n immediate comeback. “You alright?”

“Yeah. It’s just...for me to explain, I’ve got to tell you something else. And you might not like it.”

“Okay,” Liam says, a little worried, but his attention is ripped away when his phone beeps with another incoming call. “Louis, actually, I’m sorry. Could you hold for a moment? I’ve got another call. Just hold on, okay?”

Louis agrees to wait, and Liam switches over. “Hello?”

“Hi, Liam! It’s Harry.”

“Oh, Harry! Hello! What a nice surprise!”

“I wanted to know how it was going for you over there,” Harry chuckles. “Enjoying the heat?”

“ _ So much _ ,” Liam answers honestly. “It’s absolutely beautiful here. I’ve made a few friends, spent some time at the beach, learned about the Santa Anas,” he rambles. “I met your friend Zayn.”

“Oh nice! Yeah, he’s a good one. He came to pick up some samples, I assume?”

“He took  _ something _ ,” Liam says on a laugh.

“Well, I’m sure he’s not stealing from me. I know where he lives,” Harry chuckles. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it, though.”

“How’s your holiday then?” Liam asks. “Done anything particularly exciting?”

“Haven’t really done much in terms of touristy things,” Harry laughs. There’s something behind his voice that sounds a lot like nervous hesitation.

“You’ve been there four days, mate. Have you not gotten settled yet?”

“No, it’s not that. I, um...I sorta...met someone.”

Well, this conversation is sounding a little familiar.

“Oh yeah?” Liam asks, trying to keep the suspicion from reaching his voice.

“Yeah,” another nervous giggle. “Just been a little distracted, I suppose.”

“Mhm,” Liam hums. “Have you met Louis?”

A moment of silence drags into two and then three before, “Emergency Louis?”

Liam can’t be judged for rolling his eyes. “Actually, Harry, can you hold for a bit? I’ve got another call coming in.”

Harry hums his acquiescence, and Liam switches back to Louis’ call to shout without hesitation, “I can’t believe you shagged the man staying in my house!”

His heart beats out of his chest when instead of Louis’ bratty quarreling, he hears Harry breathe in sharply and exclaim in obvious humiliation, “He told you?!”

Trying to calm his heart with a hand against his chest, he answers as politely as he can manage, “Harry, I’m so sorry. I meant to switch over. Just...hold please.”

He presses the button again before Harry can respond, not sure he would have anyway. When the sound of connection comes through, he’s even more fired up than before. “Would you care to explain to me why you are shagging the man staying in my house?! He’s there for two weeks, Louis! This is not your most brilliant move! I left him your number for emergencies! Not so you could immediately get into his pants!”

A moment of silence, and Liam thinks Louis must be working on his argument. Then a decidedly American accent comes through the speaker again, and Liam could die from embarrassment, both his own and secondhand. “Still me,” Harry says.

“ _ Fuck. _ Harry, I’m sorry. My bloody phone must be malfunctioning or summat.”

“I am completely humiliated, just so you know,” Harry says, but he’s laughing, so Liam guesses it could be worse. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you. Figured it should come from Louis, but...I’m sorry, I’m just embarrassing myself in every way possible.”

“It’s okay! Harry, it’s okay, really! I just...this was unexpected.”

“Unexpected is the word I’ve been using, too, funnily enough.”

Liam hesitates, but he knows he has to say it. He forces the words from his mouth. “Just be careful, yeah? You two have really set yourself up for complication. And you seem like a nice bloke, and it’s not just Louis I’m worried about. But he’s my best friend. And he’s...there’s more to him than meets the eye.”

“I don’t mean to hurt him,” Harry says, and his voice sounds far away, distracted, wistful.

“Please don’t,” Liam says, firmly but gently.

Louis is going to get a lecture. They offer awkward goodbyes, and he’s just picking his phone back up to call Louis when it rings again. He answers without glancing at the screen.

“Hello,  _ slut _ ,” he greets his best mate, who is definitely not a slut, closer to a priest in fact, but this is all just ridiculous.

Except it’s not Louis. “Again, I’ve been called worse,” Zayn chirps. “But I’m not sure what prompted the insult this time.”

“Oh my God, hi!” Liam corrects. “Sorry, that was meant for my mate back in London.”

“So I’m in the clear?”

“For now,” Liam says. And what the hell is he doing? Flirting? Bad idea.

“Do you want to go somewhere with me?” Zayn asks, cutting to the very delicious, very painful chase. “You didn’t call, so I figured it might be up to me. I know things are weird, I’m sorry if this...isn’t okay.”

“Yeah,” Liam says, wincing at the breathy quality of his own voice, “I want to.” He clears his throat, “What have you got in mind?”

Zayn won’t tell, and it doesn’t really matter anyway. Liam is pretty sure he’d go with him just about anywhere. He announces gleefully that he’ll pick Liam up in an hour. He tells him to dress for an adventure, and when Liam asks what that means, Zayn informs him that it means comfortable clothes as they’ll have to drive a ways to their destination. He suggests dinner as well, and a pang of guilt hits Liam square in the chest when he realizes how cautious the man is being, not assuming Liam wants to do anything, go anywhere with him.

After typing out a quick, slightly passive-aggressive text to Louis to inform him that their conversation is nowhere near done, he showers and dresses himself in jeans and an old t-shirt, unsure of what’s awaiting him, but excited for whatever it might be. He feels light on his feet, like his lungs have breathed nothing but fresh air in days.

Zayn pulls up the long drive in his stupidly hot car, and Liam has a buzzing under his skin he’s pretty sure has more to do with the thought of Zayn’s hand brushing against his arm than the hum of the engine, the vibrations of the wheels on the open road once they’re out of the city.

The drive is lengthy, but pleasant. They talk over the soft sounds of various scores Zayn evidently always has playing in the background. They never venture to more difficult topics, to anything especially personal. But it’s nice. Liam is happy.

Finally, Zayn pulls off the highway and into a wide, mostly empty parking lot. He’s grinning like the cat that ate the canary, the gleam in his eye perfectly placed.

“Where are we?” Liam asks, looking up to find a once-familiar, bright neon sign buzzing over a small storefront. “Oh, no  _ way _ ! A Blockbuster?!”

Zayn laughs and steps out of the convertible, running around the front of it to open Liam’s door. “Last one in the state. It’s far enough from L.A. that not many people know it still exists. It’s our little secret.”

“This is brilliant, oh my God!” He pulls Zayn into a hug, not thinking much before colliding into him, not regretting it when Zayn wraps his arms around him and squeezes. “Great surprise,” he says, pulling away with surely pink cheeks. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

Zayn morphs his smile into an expression of faux seriousness. “I’m afraid we’re here on business. Up for a challenge?”

Liam nods and follows him into the store, swept up in nostalgia and the desire to slip his fingers into the spaces between Zayn’s.

Zayn greets the clerk as if they’re excellent friends and heads toward the back where the classics are held. He skips down the aisles, leaving Liam laughing in his dust, pulling film after film from their shelves and singing their scores in acapella. He sings poorly on purpose, loudly and unashamedly. It’s a beautiful sight.

Liam’s cheeks hurt from laughing, from holding a manic smile for too long. He’d realized something about Zayn not long after their first meeting. Zayn is fun and kind and enigmatic. And now Liam’s been given a hint as to what might lie behind that on dark days and hard nights. But whatever damage might be hiding, it’s not enough to dim his light. It only makes him more whole, more real. And Liam wishes, more than anything, that he could dig and really figure him out.

He’s still working on accepting that as an improbability. But for now, he’ll treasure the pieces of Zayn he might wish to share. He’ll admire him the way he is, even those things he might not ever have the pleasure of understanding.

“Are you embarrassed by this game we’re playing?” Zayn sings, letting his voice reach an exaggeratedly deep pitch, his loud melody spreading to every corner of the store, bouncing off the walls with Liam’s equally loud laughter.

Liam stops thinking in his untethered joy and steps forward into Zayn’s space, reaching up to gently slap his palm over Zayn’s mouth to stifle his volume.

He can’t believe he’s done it when his brain starts working again. He pulls away in a mild panic, but Zayn doesn’t seem to mind. He’s smiling, a real smile complete with crinkles by his eyes and white teeth on display.

“Okay, then,” Zayn says, breaking the fragile silence. “Now to the real work.” He turns away and peruses the next shelf. “I need inspiration. I just pick out a few good classics every time I make the trip. I want you to choose one.”

“But I don’t know anything about film scores.”

“That’s why I’m asking!” he argues animatedly. “I’m stuck in a rut, unfortunately. I need fresh eyes.”

“What if I pick something awful?”

Zayn turns back to really look at him, and his ever-present smile makes Liam’s heart flutter like he’s in some stupid romantic comedy. He’s going to have to pick something gory.

“I trust you.”

Liam tries to remind himself they aren’t strictly compatible, in terms of what they want, what they need. But every time he manages to convince himself to stop swooning like an idiot teenager, Zayn laughs or breathes or touches his hand in a way that is inherently innocent but makes fire come to life in his gut, and his argument flies away without another thought.

Movies in hand, they leave the store and Zayn tells him where they’re going next. For sushi. Liam’s never had sushi, and Zayn can’t believe it, a reaction dramaticized with wild gesticulation and wide eyes. They laugh in the car, with the wind in their hair and their hearts, and they laugh walking through the large glass doors, and they laugh as they drink sake much too quickly, waiting for this sushi that, according to Zayn, will change his life.

“What do you write about?” Zayn asks. “Do you have like, a certain piece of the paper that’s yours?”

“Wedding announcements,” Liam garbles around a mouthful of food. Zayn giggles as he struggles to swallow, having a bit of trouble with the concept of fitting whole pieces of sushi in his mouth.

“Do you know how difficult it’s been for me to not make a penis joke every time you’ve gagged on your sushi?”

Liam chokes on the rice filling his mouth, trying to keep from spraying it everywhere as he laughs, tears falling from his eyes from both the pain and the joy.

“You’re absolutely disgusting,” he says when he’s caught his breath. “ _ Disgusting _ ,” he emphasizes as Zayn pinches at his arm with a smirk on his face.

Liam coughs again, his throat scratched and itchy from the sushi disaster for which Zayn refuses to accept the blame, and his entire body goes up in flames when Zayn’s hand drops from his arm in the commotion and lands in his lap. To the worst possible place his hand could have found.

He tries not to react, but in such an attempt, he freezes completely under Zayn’s touch, his panic clearly written on his face. Zayn whips his hand away faster than lightning, and he looks terrified when Liam chances a quick glance upward.

“I’m so sorry!” he nearly yells, a delightful scarlet covering his neck, moving quickly up to his cheeks to settle on his finely crafted cheekbones.

And Liam laughs. He laughs and laughs, his breath still gone but for a newly wonderful reason. Zayn eventually chimes in, and they must look insane. And they laugh some more.

“Accidental dick graze,” Zayn wheezes, the words coming out in a stutter interrupted by hysterical laughter. “Not intentional. I’m sorry.”

Liam would be lying if he said there wasn’t at least a hint of arousal coursing through him at just that small, accidental touch. But it isn’t what’s got his mind spinning in circles, what’s got his heart beating like a drum in his chest. It’s this utter jubilation that someone’s made him laugh again. It’s the euphoria of feeling safe with someone again, of being seen and heard and wanted, even if just for simple conversation.

They drink too much. Liam hadn’t meant to lose his sobriety, at least not to the extent he’s now facing, and Zayn is tripping over his own feet, falling all over Liam. They have to hail a cab, and the drive back to his new house is a bit of a disaster. He’s pretty sure he’s going to leave his dinner in the backseat every time the driver slams down on his breaks at a red light. Zayn looks a bit peaky himself, his cheeks a little green on each and every turn.

But then they’re finally home and splayed out on the huge, frighteningly clean couch, and Liam suddenly finds himself tucked under a faux fur throw with the man who invaded his dreams last night. The truth is, he’s been doing a shit job of not falling for him. There’s no point in denying it now. Not when he’s looking at Liam like this from across the couch, his toes digging into Liam’s side as he smirks devilishly.

“Are we going to talk about the real stuff now?” Zayn asks. Liam might have panicked if he were sober, but everything is moving just slow enough under the haze of drunkenness to remove fear from the equation.

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that someone hurt you. Like the fact that neither of us have ever been rewarded for trusting people.”

Liam just gazes at him, not exactly offended -he’s right after all- but unsure of what to say, where exactly this is going. How honest are they going to be?

“How did you know?” he asks, testing the waters.

“It’s in your eyes.”

“You couldn’t possibly see something like that in a person’s eyes,” Liam scoffs, rolling his, and immediately regretting it when his brain implodes. He’s never drinking again.

“We both know I’ve looked into them a lot over the past couple of days. I’m serious. Sometimes I say something, or last night, someone would say just the wrong thing, and your eyes just...they just turn sad. They just change, in a fraction of a second.”

Liam doesn’t argue. It’d be a lie. It’s painful to do, but he keeps his eyes on Zayn’s, allowing his own vulnerability in return for seeing Zayn’s reflected back at him. “Someone broke my heart. I’ve been thinking it just happened a few days ago, but if I’m being honest...it’s been breaking for years. Just too slowly for me to notice.”

Zayn nods slowly, no doubt partly due to the alcohol still swimming in his head, but there’s understanding behind it, too. “I know it’s difficult to believe when people say this. But I actually do know how you feel.”

“But you said you’ve never been in love,” Liam asks, confused.

“I lied.”

“I thought you don't do relationships?” The words sound too harsh when he hears them fall from his mouth, but it’s too late.

“Don’t you have any defenses?” Zayn challenges quietly, sadly.

“Fair enough,” he cedes.

“I never wanted to feel that way again. So I stopped letting people come close enough to hurt me.”

Liam inhales a shaky breath, something in Zayn’s voice hinting at whatever it is that’s got a hold of them. He feels it, too. Liam isn’t the one sitting on this couch terrified and unsure of absolutely everything.

He treads lightly. “I never knew I could feel so small and insignificant. That I’d discover new places inside of myself only because they suddenly ached. I’m still trying to figure out how I managed to convince myself for so long that I was actually happy.”

The tears come, and he doesn’t try to stop them. And that decision is validated when a drop falls to Zayn’s cheek to match. His throat constricts painfully as Zayn sits up and crawls forward, leaves his lips a mere inch from Liam’s own. They gaze at one another in the deafening silence, and it’s scary, but more than anything, it feels like relief. Like the first breath of air after staying underwater for too long, like rolling the windows down to let the stale air of the car fly out and down the highway, like the first refreshing yawn of morning.

“And you hope you meet someone who makes you feel worthwhile again,” Zayn murmurs, his warm breath cascading over Liam’s parted lips like an ocean wave. He wipes the tear track from Liam’s cheek. “Someone who makes you remember why it’s all worth it.”

“Isn’t it?” Liam whispers, unable to stop his eyes from wandering to Zayn’s lips, his every desire laid bare.

“Yeah.”

And Zayn kisses him, lips insistent but gentle, his hands moving to graze Liam’s neck before his fingers slide into his hair. Their breathing is messy, uneven, their curious touches shaky with nerves.

The kiss grows more heated as the minutes pass, their lips redder and sorer with every lazy suck and lingering glide. Tongues dance in passionate rhythm, and breath is stolen when the rest of their bodies awaken, Zayn grinding down against him softly. It’s eager but full of care, both fragile and sure.

Zayn pulls away just enough for breathing to come easier, and his eyes shine like drops of citrine. They’ve never been dull, but now, with such unbridled happiness, they’re brilliant. Almost too bright above his sharp, genuine smile. He’s always beautiful, but when he’s happy, he’s breathtaking.

“I promise, I will try not to hurt you,” Zayn says, the vow causing some type of disturbance in Liam’s heartbeat.

“I promise, I will try not to hurt you.” Liam repeats his words back to him, and takes Zayn’s hand in his own. He brings it to his lips and places a featherlight kiss upon each knuckle, secretly reveling in the shiver that erupts over Zayn’s body, strong enough to rock their bodies together.

Neither of them say another word. Nothing else is needed.

Zayn pulls him to the bedroom and pushes him down on top of the white duvet. The soft material is cool against his heated skin, cooler still against his back when Zayn removes his shirt so slowly it burns.

There is too much to see, too much to hear. He can’t possibly notice every detail and commit it to memory. But he tries. He tries to inhale the soft, broken sighs that pour from Zayn’s lips as he takes what he wants. He tries to trace his curves with fingers and lips and tongue until he could never possibly forget his shape. He tries to keep at least this, even if he can’t have him.

And when they’ve exhausted one another and spread themselves over the damp sheets and each other’s tired bodies, Liam can’t help the tear that falls when, in a half-sleep, Zayn murmurs against his chest the words that were always meant to break his heart.

“Please don’t leave.”


	6. Chapter 6

**\- Harry -**

Time passes, and it doesn’t get any easier. In fact, they’re only making it harder on themselves and each other. Harry can’t decide if the selflessness outweighs the greed, the choice both of them are making to take when they know the other can’t give forever.

A week has been spent wrapped up in loving arms, in soft kisses and warm words. In snowball fights and mugs of cocoa by the fire, and home cooked meals only barely touched on nights they couldn’t keep their hands off of each other. But Louis isn’t on holiday, isn’t taking a break from his life as Harry so foolishly chose to do, landing himself in this beautiful mess.

So he’d left. After the sun rose, the light crawling over their sleeping forms, he’d left. He’d been firm, and Harry knew even then that he did so in order to convince himself that it wasn’t entirely unnecessary. His eyes had shone with unshed tears when he’d said goodbye, and if Harry ever felt so guilty for his inability to give him the same, it was in that moment.

“We’ll see each other again before you leave,” he’d murmured, kissed the promise onto Harry’s lips.

And then he was gone.

Truth be told, Harry does have a list of chores that have piled up in his neglect of accomplishing anything that was not kissing Louis senseless. So he numbs the pain of his absence by replacing bedsheets and tidying the kitchen and cleaning the fireplace as best he knows how.

The small house is sparkling clean much sooner than he’d expected, hours of daylight left to torture him as he sits alone, knowing any type of London adventure would be dull as dust without a certain happy boy and his shimmering smile. He tries to watch another Christmas film, but the room is much too quiet without his bright laughter.

So he picks himself up off the couch, takes a shower and dresses in the most alluring outfit he can put together, his tightest black skinnies and a deep maroon sweater he knows brings out the color of his eyes, and drives to the grocery store Louis had brought him to on their first full day together.

That day had been like a dream. It still feels like one now. The days following, as lovely as they were, had been more real, more tangible. Maybe the best days of Harry’s life. But that first day...it’s hard to think about. If he lets those memories reign for too long, if he really allows himself to ponder on how unbelievable it was, how inconceivably simple it still is, even despite the very obvious obstacles, his chest constricts, pressure so tight it’s too painful to continue down that path. A soreness grips his throat and his stomach jumps, and there’s always a throbbing at the base of his skull when he hears Louis’ words repeated back to him, distorted in his mind as if his memory is just trying to remind him that this is all fleeting.

He buys crusty bread and soft cheeses, fruit and wine, and determinedly drives to the address listed in Liam’s very handy contact book. The house is a touch grander than Liam’s, but he isn’t necessarily surprised, knowing of Louis’ successful career. Pristine, white snow covers the walk up to the cherry red door, sits dusted over bare rosebushes on either side. It’s absolutely beautiful. Enchanting, really. Just like the man inside.

The warm glow of a fire burning bright lights the windows, calming Harry’s nerves as much as they can be calmed. He isn’t exactly sure why he’s nervous at all. It’s not as if Louis won’t be glad to see him. Louis just...somehow he’s simultaneously the most wonderful, grounding, comforting presence and the most terrifying person Harry’s ever met. Everything between them is so fragile, and Harry has never been especially graceful.

He parks the car he’s just beginning to learn how to drive properly, with Louis’ help of course, on the street, and tries not to skip down the narrow path for fear of landing his ass in the snow. A deep breath that inevitably turns into a wide smile, and he knocks on the solid wood of the front door. He clutches his bag of goodies tightly in his fingers, and he doesn’t have to wait for long before the door opens to reveal an absolute dream on the other side.

“Harry?” Louis says, smiling in obvious confusion. “What are you doing here?”

Harry lifts up the treats he’s brought to offer. “I come bearing gifts.”

“What, uh...what’ve you got there?” He asks with a smile still spread across his face, but something isn’t right. His cheeks are bright pink, and it’s not from the cold. He closes the door behind him, his socked feet on the cold ground, and stands awkwardly between Harry and his home.

Flames of humiliation lick up Harry’s spine as he realizes what must be happening, and he can feel his cheeks warm to match Louis’. “You’re not alone, are you?”

Louis can’t seem to look at him, his eyes flickering between snowflakes on either side of him. “I’m afraid not,” he says finally.

Harry takes a step backward, only slightly conscious of the steps behind him. He feels sick and foolish and ashamed. Louis reaches for him, and Harry doesn’t have enough sense in the moment to evade his touch.

“Don’t fall,” he says, his voice much too soft, entirely too infused with care for the situation at hand. “Haz, just let me explain.” He looks like he can’t feel much better than Harry, borderline panicked, unsure of what to do. Harry really doesn’t know what the hell is going on.

“I thought…” Harry starts, but he can’t finish the sentiment, can’t let himself add to his own vulnerability.

“I know,” Louis says. “It’s not what--”

He’s interrupted by the sound of the door opening behind him, and there’s a brief flash of fear in those baby blues before he spins around and Harry’s eyes find the reason for Louis’ odd behavior, for all of the confusion.

A girl, maybe seven or eight, with bright blue eyes and curls the color of new copper. And then Harry’s entire world shifts when, in her lilting voice infused with Louis’ accent, she asks timidly, “Daddy? Who is it?”

_ Daddy? _

Harry quickly glances between Louis and this little girl who is evidently his child, silently begging for some kind of explanation as Louis rests his arms around her shoulders protectively and offers Harry an apologetic look. Then, before anyone can make another move, the door widens even further behind father and daughter, and another tiny little girl, no older than three, tumbles out onto the stoop.

Louis reaches down immediately and picks up the eager toddler, resting her on his hip as he keeps his other hand on the older’s shoulder. Harry is about to have a nervous breakdown if no one starts explaining.

“Girls, this is Harry. He’s Daddy’s new friend. He knows Uncle Liam.”

The older girl waves shyly, and the younger babbles some almost-intelligible sentence that Louis seems to understand perfectly without struggle, cooing back at her before facing Harry to finish his introductions.

“Harry, this is Beau,” he says, nodding at the older of the two. “And this little munchkin, he continues, bouncing the little one on his hip to pull sweet giggles out of her, “is Darcy.”

Harry forces himself to react, still in shock, but at least aware that he needs to do this right if there’s any hope that anything between them was real, that it can be still.

He takes a step forward, canceling out the distance he’d created earlier, and offers his hand to Beau who takes it happily. She shakes his hand firmly, smiling so wide all of her crooked teeth are visible. “Hello, Beau. How are you?” he asks, helplessly looking up at Louis for...what? Permission? Validation?

“I’m very well, thank you,” she chirps. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” Harry lies, letting his gaze grow a little more challenging when it reaches Louis’ eyes. Darcy sits on his hip, blissfully unaware of the tension. “Hello there, sweetheart,” he coos, can’t really help it despite his confusion and rising irritation. A second into extending his hand to touch her arm, he realizes it might be strange to do so since he doesn’t actually know her, feels like it might be crossing a line, and he tries to pull back, but she grabs onto a finger and holds him hostage.

She looks at him like she knows him, deep brown eyes just a shade darker than her straight locks, and this is all too much, but Harry has always loved kids, and he’s already smitten.. He’s enchanted by these little angels, so beautiful and sweet and polite. Just like their father. But that enchantment is dimmed by fear, by anxiety, because as much as he’d like to pretend this doesn’t change everything, it does. What else has Louis hid from him?  _ Who _ else?

“Would you like to come inside?” Beau asks, motioning toward Louis. “Daddy was just about to make hot cocoa. He makes the best hot cocoa out of anyone in the  _ world _ . Trust me.”

Louis giggles in embarrassment and maybe a little bit of pride, his cheeks burning red but just under the sparkle that seems to be stuck in his eye. Harry hesitates, unsure of his own right to accept the invitation, but Louis jumps in. “Please come in,” he says, a touch more quietly than Harry’s ever heard him speak before.

Harry agrees with a nod and follows them inside, bringing his long-forgotten wine along. The girls run off with the bag after he manages to sneak the wine out and onto the kitchen counter, and he and Louis are alone for a moment. Just long enough to ask the question pressing the hardest into the side of Harry’s brain and the center of his heart.

“Are you married?!” he whisper-yells, shrugging out of his coat as Louis watches in what looks like absolute terror of the situation that has enveloped them.

He shakes his head, a small, controlled movement. “No, I’m not married.”

“Divorced?”

Louis takes a breath, his nerves clearly visible, and Harry can’t possibly understand why until Louis whispers, perhaps for the benefit of not alerting his daughters to their topic of conversation, “Widowed. Two years ago.”

_ Oh. _

He can’t stop his hand from raising to rest upon his chest, right above where his heart is breaking. And just like that, so much suddenly makes sense. Louis answers his unspoken questions anyway.

“My mum and sisters have been watching them this week. While I was with you.”

“Jay?”

“Mhm,” Louis nods. “Charlotte and Felicite are the oldest after me. They’ve helped me out a lot since Claire passed.”

A pang of guilt hits Harry square in the chest, shaming him for his doubt, for his suspicion. “Lou...I’m so sorry. I had no idea, and I just thought--”

“I know what you thought,” Louis interrupts. “And I’m sorry for being dishonest with you. For withholding this, when I knew you had reason to believe I was hiding something from you. It’s just...it’s easier sometimes. To just be a normal, single guy.” He raises his arms out to both sides, shrugging in resignation. “Instead of all of this.”

The girls race back into the room then, both of them pulling on their father’s various limbs, begging for hot cocoa. He quiets them, promising them everything they might wish for, and sends them into the dining room. Harry watches fondly as they make a mad, uncoordinated dash there, wholly unconcerned with his presence.

Their giggles can be heard from the next room, but the sounds of happiness are muted in the heavy air hanging between them. “I understand if you want to go,” Louis says. “But I don’t want you to.”

“I don’t want to go,” Harry says honestly. “I just...need a moment to process all of this.”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you,” he murmurs, moving closer for a fraction of a second before pulling back as if burned.

And Harry just absolutely cannot stand the sadness filling his eyes, settling on his face like a physical weight. So he steps forward and wraps his arms around his shoulders, relief covering his battered heart, mending it, when Louis drops his forehead to his chest and finally exhales. “I understand,” he says, hoping Louis believes him.

Louis nods against him, the movement wrinkling his sweater, improving upon it. “If you want to stay until I’ve put them to bed, we can talk. I’m afraid I have to play chef now, though, or I’ll have two very unhappy little girls on my hands.”

Harry relaxes his hold on him, taking his arms from his shoulders, and Louis walks over to the counter already piled high with cocoa mix, milk, and marshmallows. He fills and decorates and perfects four steaming mugs, and all the while, the only thing Harry can think about is the very painful fact that he hasn’t kissed those lips, pursed together in concentration, his tongue peeking out every so often, in far too long.

Harry helps Louis bring the mugs to the table, hopelessly endeared at the girls’ delighted giggles when they round the corner with their treats. “Don’t forget to blow first. It’s hot,” Louis says softly, smiling down at them like they’re the most beautiful things he’s ever seen.

And that’s just it, isn’t it? Sure, Harry hadn’t seen this coming. It was definitely a shock to the system. But now, looking at this perfect little family, permanent smiles on their faces as they enjoy something as simple as hot cocoa on a cold, winter night, nothing seems out of place. It fits. The news of it was surprising, but seeing Louis like this isn’t. Not at all. It’s like he was made for this.

Beau and Darcy begin to laugh, pulling Harry from his reverie, pulling his eyes from Louis’ locked on him in return over the rim of his mug. “Harry!” Beau exclaims, “You have a mustache like Daddy now!”

Harry licks at his upper lip as Louis laughs along with his daughters and wipes up a bit of spilled drink Darcy has begun to dip her fingers into. His frothy mustache can’t possibly compare to the soft scruff covering Louis’ face, that light prickly hair that tickles Harry's cheek when they kiss.

“How does it look? Should I keep it?” he asks, encouraging more bright laughter from the girls and a sickeningly sweet smile from Louis.

“Makes you look very handsome,” Louis says with rosy cheeks. “Doesn’t it, ladies?”

When bellies are full and sugar is brushed from children’s teeth, Louis begins the process of preparing them for bed. Harry sneaks up behind him when the girls are distracted and says quietly, breath against his neck, “Let them stay up for a bit longer.”

Louis turns in his arms and looks up at him in wonder. “You don’t have to--”

“Lou,” Harry cuts him off. “I like this. I promise. Just a half hour.”

Louis moves closer to finally press a kiss against his lips, a poor one with the way neither of them can stop smiling, but the best of Harry’s life. Every next kiss from Louis is the best he’s ever had.

“Fine,” he sighs dramatically. “But then you’re all mine.”

“Deal,” Harry agrees happily, kissing him one last time before the girls bounce into the hallway, demanding Harry come see their room.

Louis guides him there, their hands brushing with every step. The room glows with tiny fairy lights strung up on the walls, and a lopsided tent made of mismatched sheets held up by chairs and various pins sits nestled in between their matching beds. The girls rush them forward excitedly, Darcy patting at Harry’s legs and commanding him to lie down inside.

“Can you please stop being so bossy?” Louis lightly scolds her, laughing at her insistence and shaking his head at Harry’s immediate submission.

The four of them lie side by side in the tent, their heads resting on fluffy, lacy, pink pillows, with Harry pressed against Louis and a young girl on either side.

“It can be anything you want it to be,” Beau says. “I like to pretend it’s a castle, and I’m the princess.”

“You are a princess, my love,” Louis says, gently poking at her ribs. She giggles and slaps his hand away, complaining that it tickles. “The prettiest, kindest, smartest princesses there ever were.”

“We know, Daddy,” Darcy says, rolling her eyes, causing a bubble of laughter to jump from Harry’s throat. “You tell us all the time.” She turns over to tangle her small fingers in Harry’s hair spread out over the pillow. “You have pretty hair,” she says, and Harry feels pride and some sort of unspoken longing cover his heart when he realizes he’s getting better at understanding her, when he wishes for more time with them. He has to pay attention and give her a response when she asks, “Are you a princess, too?”

“Thank you,” Harry says, trying to keep his voice even despite the frantic beating of his heart. “I--”

“He is very pretty, isn’t he?” Louis asks with a smirk, answering for him, the gleam in his eye saying he knows Harry is just a little overwhelmed. In the best way possible.

Beau chimes in, “Daddy, you can be my prince, and Harry can be Darcy’s! We have two princes now!”

“Yes,” Darcy agrees, “I want Harry.”

“Well, I guess I’m just chopped liver then,” Louis says with a Cheshire Cat grin.

“Harry,” Darcy continues, unaware and unconcerned with Louis’ act of faux offense. “Would you be my prince?”

“I’d love to, if it’s alright with your dad.”

Louis smiles brightly, his hair fluffy from his eldest daughter’s attempts to braid his short strands, his eyes shimmering like stardust. “It’s perfect,” he whispers.

And that’s the moment everything changes. The moment Harry knows he can’t run from this anymore. He can’t deny it. He can’t lie to himself any longer.

He’s in love. Head over heels, no matter how inconvenient, all the clichés in the world, absolutely in love with Louis Tomlinson. This kind, generous, funny, wonderful man with a clever tongue and a heart of gold and two princesses that love him dearly. And all Harry can do is hope that Louis loves him back, that he wants to let those words fall from his lips as desperately as Harry does right at this moment.

They eventually quiet, the girls growing sleepier with each passing second. The warm glow of the twinkling lights is so dull compared to the light shining in Louis’ eyes as they gaze at one another under the sheets, in this make-believe palace.

Louis lets his daughters sleep in their tent, tucking them in safe and sound, and shuts off the lights, pulling Harry out of their room and into his. It seems they both agree that it’s been entirely too long since they’ve had their hands on one another, so they take their time exploring gentle curves and sweat-sticky hollows of throats, biting sharp angles and healing the marks left with overdue kisses.

They’re quiet, for fear of waking the girls, but it feels like more than that. They’ve been together as intimately as two people can possibly be, but this is different. Tonight is entirely new. And Harry knows it has everything to do with the words resting on the tip of his tongue. So he keeps it busy licking over Louis’ neck, the valleys of his collarbones, the soft flesh of his inner thighs. He holds the confession hostage as they say everything else with hands and lips and a breathlessness that hurts.

“We were married eight years ago,” Louis says after, when they’ve learned to breathe again, lying so close Louis’ words caress Harry’s face when he speaks. “We moved to London and found jobs, had the girls. We were just...a normal family. Nothing particularly noteworthy ever happened to us. We barely got by for a few years, and then we started to make it all work a little better. We loved each other and we loved our daughters, and that was enough. It was more than enough. And then we found out about the cancer about a year after Darcy was born. It wasn’t long after that that she was gone.”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry whispers, trying to bring him any amount of comfort he can. He dances his fingertips over his skin and smoothes back his unruly hair, inching closer to kiss him any time he wishes. From everything Louis has said of Claire in these last few minutes, he gathers she was absolutely beautiful. She seems to have been much like Louis, actually. Fun and smart and kind. “She sounds lovely.”

Louis smiles softly, and there’s a sadness there, of course, but there is joy, too. “She was. There’s so much of her in the girls.”

“Then she had to have been,” Harry agrees. “They’re wonderful.”

“Right troublemakers some of the time,” Louis giggles. “The loves of my life.”

After a long moment of consideration, Harry asks cautiously, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Louis sighs, but any worry Harry might have fades away as Louis presses himself further into his chest. “I told you my life is complicated. It just…it seemed so unreasonable to even make it an issue at first. And then, when things between us...when it became more real, I was scared. I was scared it would be too much, on top of this already very difficult situation, and you wouldn’t even consider it.” He pulls away to gaze up into Harry’s eyes. “I asked you to let me be selfish.”

Harry wiggles down to kiss him, once, twice, three times, short little pecks that leave Louis beaming. “You’re not selfish.”

“Let me finish,” he says, breathing out a quiet, lovely, little laugh. “I entertained the possibility of everything not going up in flames, and I knew if that were the case, you’d want to meet the girls.”

Harry nods. “I would have.”

“I know,” Louis says. “And I had to protect them. Not from you. I know you’d never hurt them.” He flattens his palm against Harry’s chest, right atop his wildly beating heart. “You’re too good.”

Harry smiles, but his insides are melting, his throat constricting uncomfortably, his heart beating a touch too quickly.

Louis continues, as if Harry isn’t falling apart under his touch, his words. “I just couldn’t risk it when I didn’t have any promise we’d ever see you again. I knew they’d fall in love with you, too, and they’d be just as heartbroken when you were gone.”

Harry stops breathing. It was a challenge before, but now it’s impossible.

_ I knew they’d fall in love with you, too. _

Before Harry can move past the joyful, terrifying hysteria of those life-altering words, before he can convince his lungs to work again and his heart to at least try to beat at a semi-regular pace, before he can even begin to understand how this could be his reality, Louis speaks again, just as quietly as before. And maybe his voice is a little shakier, and his smile is a bit wilder, a bit more frantic, but it only makes him more beautiful.

“You know what?” he says. “It’s not really all that complicated, actually.”

“How do you mean?” Harry murmurs, absurd fear burning through him.

After a moment stolen by another breathless kiss, Louis says, “I mean, it’s not actually complicated at all. Well, it might be for you. But for me, it’s the easiest thing in the world. I love you. I’m in love with you.”

Harry is frozen, silent and unmoving, unbelieving and utterly terrified. And Louis looks a little nervous, but there’s not a single ounce of regret in those light blue eyes Harry has dreamed of since he first gazed into them what feels like a lifetime ago. It’s scary to be this happy, to be this sure of something. To want something so much that the idea of not having it is painful enough to stop breath, to make the ghost of lost tears burn behind dry eyes. To learn that he can have it. That Louis wants it, too.

“I never, honestly never, thought I’d ever feel this way again. And I know I’m a package deal, and you could never have expected this or wished for any of it. But I wished for you. I didn’t know it yet, but I was waiting for you. All those times the girls asked if I’d ever find another princess or, when I told them, a prince, I told them our story. Before it ever happened. And sure, it never included the princes meeting with one drunk off his arse and one nearly naked, but it was you. It was you and me.”

Harry might actually go into shock, his heartbeat pounding out a dangerous rhythm. His skin is somehow both ice cold and sweat-sticky where Louis touches him. And still, Louis keeps talking.

“I know it’s a lot. This has all happened so quickly, and it sounds crazy. I know it does. But fate doesn’t intervene like this every day. And I know you’re scared right now. But the truth of the matter is, I’m in love with you. I love you. And I want you to stay.”

The urge to cry has never been stronger. It actually aches, his body’s refusal to let him feel this, to show it to Louis.

Louis interrupts his silent meltdown, letting his bottom lip slip from between his teeth where he’d been chewing on it anxiously. “Please say something,” he whispers.

Harry swallows past the rock of emotion obstructing his throat, and says, more unsurely than he feels, “I don’t know what to say.”

Louis laughs humorlessly, the sound a bit more manic than his usual high, bright giggle. He really does have the best laugh. “I think if the obvious response doesn’t immediately come to you, I might have set myself up for a great deal of embarrassment.” He’s talking so fast now, and Harry can’t decipher whether it’s his own nerves, or if he’s speaking normally and Harry has just lost all traces of what is real. He continues before Harry can respond, again.

“You told me you wouldn’t fall in love with me.” Harry winces at the memory, of knowing even then that he was lying through his teeth, but Louis doesn’t seem to notice. “You did warn me. I just...I’ve been hoping that you’d reconsidered.”

The intensity of Louis’ eyes on his is excruciating. And unable to allow himself to cause this lovely, honest man any more unnecessary pain, Harry finally finds his words.

“I love you, too,” he whispers.

A heavy beat, a tortured breath. Then, “You do?” Louis asks the question with a smile, one of wary relief, of hope.

“Of course, I do,” Harry says, and he’s only just gotten the words out of his mouth when Louis rushes forward, kissing him like that’s not all they’ve been doing for all these endless moonlit hours.

Lingering, passionate kisses eventually turn to brief, sticky sweet pecks and lazy brushes of lips against lips. Heavy breathing turns to quiet gazing, and Harry doesn’t want to say it, but he knows he has to.

“Louis?” he asks, almost hoping he’s fallen asleep, giving them both the chance to escape this part.

“Hmm?” Louis hums, his bright eyes flitting open in the darkness.

Harry inhales, knows he could never prepare for the pain that will come with Louis’ hurt expression, so he just powers through it. “I do love you.” Louis smiles again, and the pain worsens. “But that doesn’t mean I can stay.”

A strange mask of almost-hidden emotion slips over Louis’ face, and Harry nearly drowns in the self-loathing that pours over him.

“Like you can’t stay because you have to go home and work out the details first? Or you can’t stay and you won’t be coming back?”

“I…” Harry starts, fear racing through his every vein, paralyzing him. “I don’t know, Lou. I mean, we’ve talked about this. I have a life in L.A. I can’t just…”

“Why not?” Louis says, plainly and without ornamentation. “What can’t you do?”

“You’re asking me to give up everything I know.”

“I would never ask you to give up anything that makes you happy. You know that.”

Harry sits on that quietly, knowing Louis is right. But it doesn’t make this any easier.

“I’m asking you to stay. Because you love me, and I love you. Because I think we could be a family, and I think that would make you as happy as it would make me. I’m asking you to choose me. Choose us. Instead of the things you came here to escape.”

Harry nods, and it shuts Louis up, but it doesn’t silence the voices in his head. Louis’ repeating all of his confessions, his own reprimanding him for being so foolish as to not immediately run into Louis’ arms, to beg for his prince to hold him forever, no matter the complication.

For now, he settles for falling asleep in his arms, swallowing down the fear that this is all just a taunting dream, the heartache that blooms in his chest at the mere thought of losing the soft, lovely, perfect man drooling on his neck and breaking Harry’s every bone with the way his eyelashes flutter in his sleep. Like Harry belongs to him.

And he does.

**\- Liam -**

For the first time in a very long time, Liam wakes to find another soul sleeping peacefully beside him. Of course,  _ beside him _ isn’t really the most accurate of words. Against him, more like. On top of him.

The tips of Zayn’s hair move with every soft, even breath from Liam’ lips. It’s a little hard to breathe with Zayn’s head resting on his chest, the dead weight of his unconscious body, but it has more to do with the simple fact of where he is, of who he’s with. Who wouldn’t have trouble breathing with the weight of that?

He bravely lifts a hand to run gentle fingers through Zayn’s fringe, not wanting to wake him, but entirely too eager to see how golden his eyes might be in the light of the morning sun creeping in through the windows. He hadn’t spared a moment the night before to consider closing the shades, and he’s grateful now for the distraction that was Zayn laying him out on the bed and kissing him everywhere, places he’s never been kissed before.

He keeps his touch light, only barely the tease of a caress, but Zayn wakes eventually, his long lashes fluttering as he struggles to open his eyes. When he does, the struggle of breathing worsens. The warm amber of his eyes has lightened to pure gold, prettier than any jewel Liam can imagine. Zayn’s tongue darts out to lazily lick over his lips, chapped from sleep. He breathes in deeply and shuts his eyes, still halfway lost in a dream, totally unaffected by his own beauty, as he nuzzles into Liam’s solid form.

“Good morning,” Liam says. He tries for soft, quiet, but his throat is scratchy from disuse and dehydration.

Zayn’s eyes open at the sound of his voice, and he looks up, a sly, sleepy smile growing on his lips. “So you  _ do _ sound sexy in the morning. I had a feeling.”

Liam lets slip an embarrassed, breathy giggle, his cheeks heating up under Zayn’s unwavering stare. “I sound gross. Need water.”

Zayn rolls over then, leaving a red imprint of his cheek on Liam’s chest, and crawls over him, staying close enough for their naked bodies to meet again. “Can you wait five minutes?” he murmurs, the heat of his breath tickling Liam’s ear to send shivers up his spine pressed firmly, comfortably into the bed with Zayn’s added weight atop him. Zayn nibbles at the lobe, and Liam is done for, helpless to do anything but wrap his arms around his lithe frame, his nails lightly scratching against Zayn’s skin to pull a quiet moan from his lips.

“Could wait a lifetime,” Liam whispers, seeking out his lips and tongue and teeth for their first kiss in hours.

The kiss is slow, gentle and familiar, generous and teasing. Hands wander over smooth skin, fingers dip into curves and sparse hair found on the journey. They both interrupt the other’s rhythm with helpless smiles too many times to count.

Zayn happily gives, offers himself up like a flower blooming in spring, and he takes, with care and precision and a wonder in his eyes Liam has never before had reflected back at him. Zayn knows it, somehow he does, and Liam knows he recognizes the magnitude of whatever the hell this is between them. Liam understands now, that such a thing can be seen in a person’s eyes.

All of their following mornings look the same, one of them waking up to trailing kisses, sweet and lingering until they turn more purposeful, only to return the favor the following morning. They make breakfast, which changes, Zayn making his “best scrambled eggs in the world” one day, Liam treating him to pancakes the next, neither of them too concerned about eating at all on more than one occasion. They drink fresh-squeezed juice while they sit on the sun-drenched stairs leading to the sand behind the house, watching the waves kiss the shore.

Zayn always leaves, citing work as an everthere interruption, but he never leaves without a kiss, and he always comes back. And he always kisses Liam again when he does.

Their evenings do look different, from day to day. Zayn tries valiantly to teach Liam to surf, and it’s a massive failure, but Liam can’t bring himself to mind at all when Zayn takes him home and massages his sore muscles, kisses his sunburnt skin. They watch movies, and Zayn hums along to the scores, and Liam watches him quietly, trying not to think what it might mean that all of this is so easy, so simple, when Zayn’s eyes land on his. They order pizza one night and nearly burn the house down the next when they attempt a homemade pasta dish requiring wine to be poured into a hot pan, a feat neither of them has ever attempted, much less mastered.

And one night, Zayn wipes a smidge of cream sauce from Liam’s cheek, and Liam fully expects another dirty joke, as Zayn is so fond of those, but instead, he kisses him gently and says, “I want to show you something.”

He takes Liam’s hand and pulls him from the couch, leading him outside, not to the beach, but to the small grassy area upon which rests Harry’s studio. Liam follows him gleefully, having no idea what Zayn could possibly be up to, but knowing he’ll love it, whatever it may be.

They enter the studio, and Zayn sits at a bench pulled up to a keyboard, motioning for Liam to join him. “I snuck it over here when you were distracted with dinner,” Zayn says, a twinkle in his eye. “I wrote Niall’s song.”

Liam gasps with excitement, having been eager to see what Zayn would come up with since he first told him all about Niall and his courageous venture. He’s been spending his days with Niall, helping him write his speech and work through his anxiety, learning all about his life’s work and simply his life, becoming his friend. One day, Niall had said a little flippantly, without any kind of hope or hint behind it, that it would be easier to get up on that stage if he was a character in one of his films, one who had lively, motivational music following him so the audience would know he was valuable, meant for something.

So Liam had asked his permission to involve a trusted friend, later, of course, to avoid suspicion, and upon receiving it, had enlisted Zayn, all but begging him to write what has since been dubbed  _ Gumption _ . Zayn had agreed in a heartbeat, smiling sincerely, genuinely happy to help and excited at the prospect of composing with a new purpose in mind.

Now, Zayn kisses him sweetly before placing his hands in their proper positions on the keys, and begins to play. A bright, wonderful melody floats through the air, changing everything with just a few notes. It’s absolutely perfect. Liam can’t help the smile that comes with imagining his friend, that silly Irishman so brilliant and humble and deserving, climbing a small set of stairs to claim his rightful place in front of an adoring audience, followed by this lilting, magical refrain Zayn has written just for him, for his very special moment.

“It’s perfect,” Liam says, aloud this time, bringing a smile to Zayn’s face, lifting the apprehension from his brow. “It’s gorgeous, Z.”

Zayn blushes at the pet name, as he has every single time Liam has let it slip over the past week. The music stops and starts back up, but it’s different now. Softer and slower, beautifully sad, but in a way that Liam somehow recognizes.

“I wrote one for you, too,” Zayn murmurs, turning to press his nose to the sensitive space behind Liam’s ear with which he’s become so familiar. His fingers continue to dance over the keys even as he kisses Liam’s neck. He returns his attention to the music, and Liam struggles to breathe as he watches him, sees that his fingers don’t really look all that different here than they do spread over his skin in a moonlit bedroom.

“I used only the good notes,” Zayn says, pulling Liam from memories. He’s going to cry, and he knows he won’t be able to stop the tears once the first one falls, but he looks up at the ceiling anyway, hoping the cool air of the studio will wick away the moisture already gathering in his eyes.

The melody is familiar somehow. An absurd thought, surely, as he could never have possibly heard it before this moment. But it sounds like him. It sounds like Zayn. It sounds like longing, resignation maybe. It sounds like love. And it sounds like heartbreak.

“Li,” Zayn says quietly, still playing. Liam gives up the fight, a tear falling to his cheek as he turns to look at Zayn. “Is it that bad? Should I stop?”

Liam laughs, and the accompanying jerk of his body only causes more tears to jump from his eyes. “Please don’t,” he says, and Zayn is smiling at him like he can feel this, too, like maybe Liam isn’t the only one falling in love. “It’s so beautiful.”

“I could never come close to your beauty with this simple machine,” Zayn says, winking before turning his eyes back to the keys. “But I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it,” Liam replies honestly.

And it’s the only honesty he’s able to give, the unspoken  _ and you _ never leaving his lips as Zayn finishes with a haunting, single note that sounds as if it might have been plucked right from the center of Liam’s heart, and kisses him senseless for the hundredth time while Liam prays it won’t be one of the last.

~~~

The day of the Writers Guild gala finally arrives.  Zayn has wandered off to finish the preparations for his part in the event.  Niall is having one more last-minute fitting for his suit and meeting with his therapist before he comes over to Harry’s.  And Liam is alone, without much to do other than wait for evening to fall.

He makes a cup of tea and attempts to sit still long enough to finish a Christmas film, but it’s impossible without Zayn’s graceful hands keeping him grounded to the couch, his laughter making the story all the more enjoyable.

He walks through the house more than once, pacing restlessly, and on his third pass through the foyer, he notices it for the first time in days.  The large envelope that’s been waiting patiently for his attention since it had arrived when he was so delightfully distracted by an entirely different complication.  Michael’s manuscript.

He realizes with a bit of shock, a touch of nausea, that he hasn’t spared Michael more than a passing thought in days.  Not since he met Zayn.  It seems almost impossible, with the way he’s been  _ all _ Liam has thought about for years.  But now he’s been reminded, and while it doesn’t change a thing about what’s happening between Zayn and himself, it does create a hint of sadness, a feeling of guilt.  He loved Michael.  He really did.  And he can’t know for sure, but he’d like to think Michael loved him back.  Even if it was only ever in his own, incomplete way.

Out of respect to whatever love may have been there, on both sides, he takes the envelope in hand and plops down on the couch.  He reads over the note tucked inside, not surprised by the lack of any meaningful words, but a little by the shadow of disappointment that still hangs over him.  He carefully pulls the manuscript from its packaging and only reads through the first few lines, infuriatingly brilliant, as always, before his phone rings, vibrating loudly on the coffee table.

Speak of the devil.

“Hello?” he greets casually, not sure he’s prepared for whatever this might be.

“Hey, Li,” Michael says.  “How’re you?”

“I’m great, actually,” Liam answers honestly.  “Having a wonderful time here.”

“Yeah?  That’s great,” Michael says, and there’s something in his voice that Liam can’t place.  It makes him nervous.  “Have you had a chance to look at the pages I sent you?”

“I’m just looking at them now, if I’m being honest.  It’s been a bit of a busy week.”  He tries to keep visions of Zayn, of their various _ activities _ , out of the forefront of his mind as he speaks to someone who could never deserve to know about him, about any of it.

“And what exactly have you been up to?” Michael asks, his tone taking on a flirtatious quality that makes Liam feel lightheaded, in an entirely different way than that ever had before.  It’s unpleasant.

He tries to keep the conversation going, keep it casual and meaningless until enough time has passed for it to be appropriate for him to hang up.  “Just exploring, I suppose.”

“Ah,” Michael chirps, distracted.  “I’ve, erm...I’ve sent you something.  It’s likely there, if you’d check for any packages.”

Dread covers Liam’s entire being, and he isn’t even really sure why.  He just knows, somehow, that this is bad.  “What is it?” he asks, and he knows the apprehension in his voice is audible.

“It’s a surprise,” Michael says, and that definitely doesn’t help quell Liam’s anxiety.

He’s got to have a look around, knows he won’t be able to think of anything else until he knows what’s waiting for him.  Michael won’t let him.

He stands from the couch, letting the papers fall to the cushions, and walks determinedly to the front door.  “I’ll have to check the gate, so hold--”

And the oxygen leaves his lungs in a rush, at the feeling of being punched in the gut, the rest of his words locked inside of him as he tries to process what’s happening, what he’s gotten himself into.

“A good surprise, I hope,” Michael says.  And he’s here, in L.A., halfway around the world.  _  For what? _  “The gate was open.  Terribly unsafe.”

Liam vaguely realizes Zayn must not have closed it after he left early this morning.  Michael is smiling, like he can’t see that Liam is close to a nervous breakdown.  Like this is all perfectly normal, perfectly okay.

“Hi,” he squeaks, his voice weak with the effort of holding in so many conflicting emotions.  Disbelief, anger, pain, confusion.  All there, tumbling around inside his head, bruising his heart, fighting for dominance. “What are you doing here?”

Michael does what he always does when he’s nervous.  He scratches a nonexistent itch at the back of his neck and looks up at Liam through his eyelashes.  “I missed you, babe.”

“Don’t call me that.”  Liam surprises himself with the quickness of those words, and judging by his confused expression and his nervous step backward, he’s surprised Michael, too.

“What?”

“I’m not yours,” Liam says, growing more and more exasperated as the seconds tick by with Michael staring back at him like a lost, helpless puppy.

“Okay…” Michael says, hesitating, the situation clearly not having gone the way he’d expected, the way he’d hoped.  “Can we...can we talk?  Just...can I come inside?”

Liam really doesn’t want to let him inside.  He doesn’t belong here.  He doesn’t deserve to be here, in this wonderful place.  He doesn’t deserve to know about any of it.

“Sure,” he says instead.  Because Michael looks like he might cry, and honestly, the last thing Liam wants is for him to create a scene in front of Harry’s house.

Michael brushes past him, and somehow the entire universe doesn’t collapse around him at the touch.  It’s unwelcome, is the thing.  And he hasn’t thought enough about him since he got here for him to even realize that he’s done exactly what he’d meant to do.

He’s fallen out of love with him.  And fallen in love with someone else.

That sudden realization leaves Liam a bit wobbly, and he watches in a sort of daze as Michael strolls into the living room like he owns the place, like he has any right to be here.

Liam swallows past the rock in his throat and crosses his arms against his chest, standing straight, chin parallel to the floor.  He knows this won’t be easy.  It’s never easy to tell Michael something he doesn’t want to hear.  Only now, his stubbornness is far from endearing.

“You have to leave,” Liam says, thankful he braced himself for the fight when Michael looks up at him from the couch where he sat down with mistaken entitlement.

“I thought you’d want to see me,” Michael says, like he’s offended.  He’s still smiling, and it pisses Liam off.

“Why would you think that, Michael?  Honestly?”

“Babe--”

“Don’t  _ call _ me that.”

“I’m sorry.  Shit, I’m sorry, I just thought--”

“Oh, I know what you thought.  You thought you could just waltz over here, or wherever I am for the rest of my life, and just say, ‘Oh, babe, I missed you,’ and I’d just come running back.  The question I’m asking is how you could  _ possibly _ think that doesn’t make you the arsehole here.”

“Liam, just wait for a second--”

“Michael, let me just ask you one question, okay?”

He hesitates for a moment but nods his head.  “Okay.”

“Are you still engaged to be married?”

Another silent moment.  “Well, yeah, but--”

“Then get out.”

“But, Liam, listen.  Please? We can make it work, alright?  At least talk to me about it.  I came all this way.  Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Liam shouldn’t be surprised.  But he can’t honestly believe what the dickhead is suggesting.  “You know something?” he says, needing to say one last thing before he throws him out forever.  “I never thought I’d hear myself say this, literally never.  But you were right about us.”

“Oh, babe--”

“No!  You were right about us.  Square peg, round hole.  You said that to me once, that we were a square peg and a round hole!  And I was too stupid to leave you then, too bloody in love with you to listen, but I’m not that person anymore!”

Michael moves as if he might try to argue, but Liam doesn’t let him.  It’s his turn.  For the first time ever, it’s his turn.  “You say you don’t want to lose me, but I was never really yours!  You never let me be yours!” He looks him dead in the eyes and tries his very best to make the words hit the hardest they can.  “And now I don’t want to be.”

He laughs, a little manic, on the right side of frantic, but it’s genuine, full of joy.  Michael looks confused, shocked, probably by the crazy look in Liam’s eyes, and it just makes him laugh even louder, giggles erupting from his throat as Michael looks on helplessly.

“I’m miraculously done being in love with you!” he says, and maybe that’s a bit harsh, but it feels like an angel’s choir has ascended from heaven just for this moment.

Liam grabs Michael’s arm and hauls him off of the couch, pulling him toward the front door as he follows in quiet disbelief, like he can’t catch up so instead he’s just letting it all happen.  “Now if you’ll excuse me,” Liam says, unable to control his smile for the purpose of sparing Michael’s feelings.  “I have somewhere very important to be.  And you need to leave.”

Standing on the other side of the open door where Liam had pushed him through rather ungracefully, he tries one last time, “Liam, what has gotten into you?”

Liam smiles even brighter, memories of the past week, the best week of his life, flashing through his mind.  “I don’t know,” he says, “but I think what I’ve found is something slightly resembling gumption.”

And with that, he slams the door closed, probably only barely missing Michael’s nose as he steps forward, failing to stop the door from separating them permanently.

He throws his manuscript into the garbage, deletes his number from his phone, and breathes in this new sense of freedom.  And his next thought is of Zayn.  That he’ll do anything it takes to keep him.  Nothing’s ever felt so simple.

He busies himself cleaning house and preparing a light dinner for Niall and himself to attempt to enjoy despite the nerves that will inevitably be present.  Niall for obvious reason, himself due to the vow he’s made to tell Zayn his truth.

Niall announces his arrival with a loud buzzing from the intercom just as the sun begins to set.  Liam grants him entrance, just finishing up the last of the cooking as Niall tumbles through the door.

“I’m freakin’ out, mate!” he yells, the first words out of his mouth as he throws himself onto a stool pulled up to the bar.  “I can’t do this.”

“You  _ can _ do this,” Liam says calmly, setting a plate in front of him.  “Now eat.  We’ve got somewhere to be.”

Niall huffs and grumbles into his food, but he eats it willingly, even wiping excess sauce from the plate to lick it off his finger.

“It’s going to be fantastic, Niall.  You’re ready for this.”  Liam offers a sincere smile, hoping some of the serenity he’s found today will rub off on Niall, will allow him to share this sense of calm.

They shine their shoes and slip into their suits, Liam’s a pale, solid grey, Niall’s a dark, midnight blue, and assist one another with their cufflinks before heading out the door.  Niall is shaking a little once they get onto the road, fidgeting with his buttons and his phone and the door lock and anything else he can reach.

“Niall, you know if we get there and you really feel like you can’t do it, we can leave.  They’ll just have to deal.”

“I’m gonna do it,” Niall says, quietly, anxiously.

“I’m really,  _ really _ proud of you.  You deserve this,” Liam says, sparing him a glance before setting his attention back on the highway stretching out before them.  “You’re going to be just fine.”

“Just keep thinking about how it’ll feel after, y’know?” He’s looking out the window like if he wishes hard enough, he might be able to fly away.  “The relief.  Like...it won’t even be a thing anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I honestly don’t even think my anxiety is still about the fame and all that.  I think it was about  _ this _ .”

“Not being a mystery any longer?” Liam asks.

“Yeah.” Niall nods his head before resting it on the back of his seat.  “Just want to get it over with.”

“It’ll be wonderful,” Liam assures him.  “Just go in there and blow them all away with your Irish charm.”

Niall laughs at that, slapping at Liam’s arm.  Then, after a long, quiet moment, “Thank you.  For convincing me it was time.  For helping me and coaching me and listening to all of my shit.  For coming tonight.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Liam says with a smile.  “And that’s what we are.  Friends.”

Niall rolls his eyes goodnaturedly, maybe a touch embarrassed by the show of affection, but Liam knows he agrees.  He knows he’s just as thankful.

“You totally changed me, y’know?” Liam continues, trying to distract him just a little with his own sappiness, maybe even pull more laughter from him.  “You showed me that I’m valuable just as I am.  And that it was high time I see it for myself.”

“Oh yeah?” Niall asks.  “What did--” he pauses, smiling when he catches sight of Liam’s wild grin.  “What did you do?”

“What I should’ve done years ago.”

“And Mr. Malik?” Niall presses.

A blush creeps up Liam’s neck and spreads out over his cheeks, not from embarrassment but out of anticipation, nerves, the warmth that invades his every cell at even the mention of Zayn.  “Ask me after the gala,” he says, smiling through the pleasurable panic that rises in his chest.

They pull up to a massive hall and hop out of the car to allow the valet to take it away.  The moment they walk inside, two escorts approach them.

“Mr. Horan?” one asks, looking back and forth between Niall and Liam, clearly unsure which of them is the man he is meant to greet.

Niall nods, and holds out his hand for a proper introduction.  “It’s just through here, then?” he asks, gesturing toward the wide double doors separating them from what must be an elegant space made complete with a stage and small, round tables strategically placed to seat the correct number of guests, an image built by his hand in the planning as Niall’s handler or something close to it.

“Yes, sir,” the other chirps.  “Whenever you’re ready.”

Liam watches as Niall takes in a shaky breath and cracks his neck thoughtlessly.  “You can do this,” he says, hoping it sounds encouraging, supportive, rather than pushy in any way.

Niall turns to him and, without warning, crashes into him, hugging him tightly, no doubt wrinkling both of their suits.  “Thank you,” he whispers, smacking a loud kiss to his cheek before releasing his hold.  “I’ll see you in there.”

Liam nods and waves him away, smiling helplessly at his dear friend’s bravery.  “I’m right behind you.”

Liam keeps his distance to walk in long enough after him to give him his moment, but when the doors open and he sees what lies behind them, he loses his breath and the beauty of it.  The huge, spacious room is packed with people, applauding a man who’s touched them all so deeply but whom they’ve only now seen for the first time.

He looks on with pride as Niall walks determinedly down the path to the stage as the host announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr. Niall Horan!”

Liam’s smile is so big it hurts his cheeks when, as he steps into the room himself, a lovely, bright melody begins to fill the space, familiar notes brilliantly joining the sounds of praise and excitement.  Niall whips around at the end of the carpet, a wondrous smile on his face, as he comes to understand what is happening.  Liam shrugs, conveying his own happy guilt in having surprised him.

Niall turns back around and completes his journey, climbing the steps to the stage confidently, his steps in tune with the song, his every movement one of exactly what the music demands.  Gumption.

Liam takes his seat at the frontmost table, and only a few seconds later, a warm body is beside him, pulling his attention away from the man on stage.  “Hi,” Zayn whispers, his breath hot against Liam’s ear.

Liam turns to face him and receives a quick, sweet kiss as a reward.  He smiles against Zayn’s pursed lips, and it must look silly, but it feels like everything Liam has ever wanted.  “Hi,” he whispers, “Sit down.”

Zayn does just that, and they watch in awe as Niall takes the stage by storm and glides up to the podium.  Zayn slides his arm around Liam’s shoulders, and Liam drops his head to Zayn’s as he looks up at his friend with such admiration.

“I’m so proud of him,” Liam whispers, Zayn smiling back at him.  “The music was perfect.  Did you see that smile?”

Zayn nods, and squeezes him tighter, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Good evening,” Niall says, his voice a little shaky, but just enough to show his honor, his surprise.  “I can’t tell you how hard all of this was for me to accept.  I’ve wrestled with this very unveiling for years.  But I can tell you the reasons I’ve finally gone through with it are the support I’ve found through my dear friends, some of whom are here with us tonight, and the idea that all of you lovely people might have found something in my work, in one of my films, that made you feel something.  I love what I do, and the sole reason I’ve worked so tirelessly over the years to create what I have, these films you’ve all so generously named masterpieces, is the hope that they could bring people together.  With understanding, a sense of community among all of us, no matter who he are.  With tears and frustration and laughter, and most importantly, with love.”

Liam turns to Zayn, the movement automatic at the mention of love, and he knows he doesn’t have a choice.  Zayn gazes at him questioningly, and before his fear can talk him out of it, he says, so quietly he almost can’t hear the words himself, “I love you.”

A flurry of emotions passes over Zayn’s face, but not one of them is anywhere close to fear.  He looks surprised, unsure of what to do, but above everything, he looks happy, filled to the brim with joy.  “I started falling in love with you the moment I heard your voice through that shitty speaker.”

Tears are already obstructing Liam’s vision, and he smiles as he blinks them away.  “What if I stayed?” he asks, the last, lingering weight of worry falling off him as Zayn kisses him, right there, in front of thousands. No fear, no shame, no hesitation.

Zayn lifts his hands to Liam’s neck, his palms sliding up, up, up until they come to rest gently upon his cheeks as he kisses him one last time.  “Please,  _ please _ stay,” he whispers, staying close as they breathe each other in.  “Stay with me.”

Liam nods and pulls away, forcing both of them to do what they came here to do, support Niall.  They listen as he talks about his life’s work and eventually wraps up his speech to the sound of deafening applause.

Zayn holds his hand through it all, and on into the night as they meet friends new to them both, only ever letting go so that they might wrap Niall up in a tight hug, telling him just how proud they are to be friends with Mr. Niall Horan, the filmmaker extraordinaire, but how much more it means to know Niall Horan, the wonderful, compassionate, courageous man.

And when they step outside for a breath of fresh air, and the wind picks up around them, Zayn holds him closer, kissing him like it’s the very first time.  And Liam knows, in that moment, that Zayn was right all along.

When these strange winds blow, anything can happen.


	7. Chapter 7

**\- Harry -**

The days pass like hours, the hours like minutes, and Harry’s last day in London comes painfully quickly.  He’s leaving.  Going back to a place that no longer feels like home.  He can’t even bring himself to say the word. He’s not going  _ home _ , just somewhere else. Somewhere Louis isn’t.

It’s not that the  _ wrong _ decision has been made.   _ No _ decision has been made.  The last of their days have swept by in the blink of an eye as if time moved faster just to spite them.  And now, Harry is leaving, and they’re both just pretending they aren’t lost and confused and terrified.

The cab has been waiting for over five minutes, the driver sitting patiently in the front, ready to take him to the airport, away from Louis.  His luggage is loaded into the trunk of the car, and the warmth of the cottage he’s come to love more than his own house is hidden behind the door.  Louis holds him tightly, breathing against his neck as Harry holds him even tighter, trying to say everything his tongue wouldn’t let him confess before now.

Louis eventually pulls away, perhaps because he knows Harry wouldn’t be able to.  “It’s not goodbye,” he says, tucking a curl behind Harry’s ear, kissing him so gently it’s like kissing a ghost.  The thought of not being able to kiss him hello or good morning or goodnight is too painful to bear.  Of not being able to watch his eyelashes flutter like the wings of a butterfly as he dreams, to hear his bright laugh any time Harry tells a dumb joke, to hold him like he won’t ever have to let go.

“Not goodbye,” Harry mumbles back, pressing the words to Louis’ lips.  “We’ll...we’ll figure it out.  Something’s gotta give, right?”

Louis deflates again, a pained, humorless smirk on his face.  “I’ll be waiting.”

Another kiss, too long and not long enough, and Harry steps back, ripping himself away slowly.  “I’ll call you when I land.”

Louis nods, his smile full of hurt, betraying him.  He doesn’t believe it.

“I will, Lou.”

Louis crashes into him, without warning, and hugs him one last time, this one more desperate than any of the last.  He doesn’t say another word, doesn’t offer any more hopeless, empty farewells.  He just holds him until he has to let go, and Harry walks to the car.

He offers a wave as the final blow of his departure, shivering as he closes the car door, the sleek interior entirely too cold without Louis’ touch.  Harry keeps his eyes on Louis as he watches the car drive away, and he knows, somehow, that Louis stays there for much longer, long after they’re out of sight, can almost feel it when he finally gives up and heads back into the warmth of the cottage minutes later.

“How was your holiday, sir?” the driver asks, and Harry had been much too preoccupied kissing Louis as many times as possible in those last minutes to notice anything else, but when he looks up to meet the man’s gaze in the rearview mirror, he recognizes him as the man who drove him here on his first day.

“Oh, hi,” Harry says, a bit surprised.  “How are you?”

“I’m alright, sir.  Had a wonderful Christmas with my family.  Did you have a nice holiday?”

Harry realizes a little slowly that he’s now asked twice and that he really should give him an answer.  “It was…” he pauses, trying his best to remain calm despite the panic welling up inside of him.  This wasn’t a holiday.  This wasn’t a vacation, a two-week trip to clear his mind and eat new foods and explore a new city.  Sure, it started out that way, and he did do all of that.  But this...being expected to give a casual, positive remark about his time here like it was nothing more than a meaningless visit...it feels so wrong.

He glances up once more to find the driver’s eyes still on him and blurts out, “It was wonderful.”

“Glad to hear it, sir.”

That seems to mark the end of their exchange, so Harry moves to make himself more comfortable for the ride to the airport.  Except that’s next to impossible with his sudden inability to breathe as deeply as he needs, the suffocating tightness of the backseat, the queasy, weighty sensation moving from his stomach to his heart and back again, the pain of it much more than simple discomfort.

He has a brief thought that he should focus on the day ahead of him, his travel plan, all that he needs to accomplish once he gets back to L.A.  But then, without his permission, his scattered thoughts, every single one of them, run to Louis.  He wonders how long Louis will stay at Liam’s, if he’s really cleaning as he said he would.  He can’t admit to himself that he knows that’s not the case.  The alternative, the idea of Louis sitting on the couch or lying in what became their bed, feeling just as lost as Harry does in this backwards cab, crying even, is entirely too heartbreaking.

As bare, snow-covered trees flash past his hazy eyes, he lets the memories of his Christmas wash over him, cooling the burning achiness in his chest like a soothing balm.  He’d spent Christmas Eve and the following day with Louis, with his daughters, like he belonged there.  No one questioned it, at least not out loud.

Louis had put the girls to sleep, Harry watching from the door as he read from an antique edition of  _ A Visit from St. Nicholas  _ and kissed their tiny heads once their eyes had finally closed from exhaustion.  Then, he’d taken Harry to bed and told him a story of his own through gentle, wandering hands, puffy pink lips, and hitches of breath warm with wine and desire.

The next morning was chaotic, as any home is with two little girls full of the holiday spirit.  Louis had risen before they could come running into the bedroom, disturbing their haven and potentially opening up a can of worms Louis wasn’t ready to deal with.  He’d leaned over and kissed Harry’s cheek, a light shadow of a touch, and climbed out of bed. Harry had watched him go in secret, feigning sleep.

Harry had joined the little family in the living room after some time, wishing to give them all a chance to have their normal Christmas morning, but the moment he’d entered the room, the girls were on him, demanding to know why he was late and informing him in disappointed fashion that they’d already opened one gift each, so he’d have to ask Louis what they were as they were on to the next.

And then Louis had kissed him again, this time on the lips, his own tasting of the coffee he’d been sipping as Harry watched him from the hallway.  Louis had seen him, of course, but had understood Harry’s hesitance and let him make the choice.  He kissed him, and Beau squealed as Darcy made a noise of disgust, standing up to wipe at her father’s scruffy cheek after seeing Harry plant a last, brief kiss there.

Harry can think of a myriad of emotions he should have been feeling then, through all of it.  Fear, confusion, uncertainty.  But all he felt was love.  A peaceful joy, a calm happiness.

And now he’s left.  And struggling to breathe in the back of a cab, watching in a syrupy-slow kind of panic as the trees whip by faster and faster, pulling off his scarf as it starts to choke him, he honestly doesn’t know why.

He can work from London, might even be able to convince his team to relocate, too.  He can travel to see his family, and his mom and sister would love it here anyway.  There would be sacrifices, of course, but he can’t think of a single one that would be so agonizing as this.

Louis is not someone he is willing to give up. This glimpse of a life he’s offered him, a life they could live together, as a family...he can’t let it fall away.  He can’t sacrifice this, just because he was too much of a coward to stay.

He spends his days creating dramaticized illusions of love, sneak peeks into love stories told in technicolor.  And for the first time in his life, he understands the feelings all of those actors aim to portray.  He understands the simplicity of cliché, the beauty of predictability, the peace that comes in a rush at the idea of finding the one who can make everything else seem like background noise.

Why would he ever leave?  It’s Christmas, and Louis’ eyes shine a brighter shade of blue than the Pacific could ever hope to, and Harry is completely and irrevocably in love with him.

The world around him flies by in a white blur as he comes to understand what he’s done.  His thoughts flicker to what Louis must be thinking right now, how he must be feeling.  Harry can’t stomach the idea of Louis believing anything short of the truth.

His stomach lurches, and he’s almost choked out the words, begging the driver to stop or pull over or open the window, when an entirely new, strange sensation crawls up his throat and spreads over his face.  It’s heavy, sitting on his lungs and pressing on his throat, and it burns in his nose, in his eyes.

He can’t leave.  That’s all he knows.  But he can’t get the words out, his heart breaking too quickly to allow it.

He throws his head back against the seat, realizing through a confusing dizziness that he’s probably having a panic attack.  And then, for the first time in fourteen years, a wetness touches his eyes, hot tears growing heavier until they drop to his heated skin, his cheeks rosy with all of his effort.

They come and they don’t stop, and he prays they never will.  He can’t help the hysterical laughter that jumps from his throat, his lungs heaving, waterfalls pouring from his eyes. When he wipes at his cheeks, his fingers come away wet with all the tears Harry’s ever wanted to cry for him, for Louis.  For the love of his life.

He laughs, and he knows he must look absolutely insane, but he doesn’t care about any of that.  All he cares about is getting back to Louis.

“Can you turn around?” he asks, undoing his seatbelt, leaning forward impatiently, finally jumping into action.  “Please turn around.  You have to turn--”

“Did you forget something, sir?”

“Yes!” Harry squeals, giggling to the point of madness, haphazardly gathering his things.  “Just stop.  It’s okay, just stop.”

The car comes to a screeching halt, and the driver is calling out to him, probably because Harry tossed way too much money into his lap before pulling his luggage from the trunk to drag it through the snow.

He doesn’t hear a word, won’t care about anything until he’s gotten his arms around Louis again.  He drops his suitcase on the ground not even halfway back to the cottage.  He’ll come back for it, and he can only hope Louis will hold his other hand as he drags it the rest of the way later.

He runs until his lungs are on fire, and then he runs some more.  His face is numb from the cold, prickling a bit where his tears had left messy tracks, proof of his little miracle.  He slips more than once, but he picks himself up more quickly each time, the sound of Louis’ sweet, high laughter ringing in his ears just like it does every time Harry is a touch clumsier than usual.  He can’t live without it.

He reaches the gate, with burning lungs and iced fingers, and swings it open, barely hearing the loud rasp of the iron.  He doesn’t knock when he gets up the steps, knowing Louis wouldn’t have locked the door, tumbling inside with a shout of Louis’ name, desperately high at the end, a question, a plea.  “Louis?!”

He rushes through the small space that is the kitchen they’ve shared nearly all of their meals over in the last two weeks and into the living room.  He’s just taking a step into the hallway toward the bedroom, his heart thumping nervously in his chest, hoping beyond hope that he hasn’t gone somehow, when a small, infinitely beautiful figure emerges from the shadows.

“Lou?” Harry says, letting his voice fall to a murmur.  He moves closer, unreasonably frightened now that he stands so close.  Louis looks broken, his face wet with tears, and Harry is filled with self-hatred, knowing he’s the reason.

But then Louis smiles that glorious crooked smile Harry fell in love with the moment they met, when he’d teased him mercilessly for his nakedness, grinning like the cat who got the cream. And everything is suddenly okay when he sniffles through a helpless giggle, shrugging his shoulders. “I told you,” he says quietly, a hiccup cutting through his last word. “Crybaby.”

Harry takes another step, crashing into him, throwing his arms around his small, perfect frame. He clings to him desperately, and Louis holds him so tightly it should hurt. But it doesn’t hurt at all. It feels like home.

Louis mumbles some unintelligible question against Harry’s shoulder, his fingers slipping through his curls loosened by the wind that propelled him right back to Louis. He only knows it’s a question because of the way his voice rises at the end, climbing beautifully high. And Harry will ask for it again, and he’ll answer with all the honesty in his heart, but he’s got one thing to do first.

He pulls back just enough for their eyes to meet, red and puffy and wet, and Louis gasps when he notices, realizes what brought Harry back, and the warm, uneven exhale that escapes him meets Harry’s lips as he tries to say everything with a kiss. Made by passion and understanding and maybe even a touch of disbelief, the kiss is delicate and strong, lingering and desperate and innocent and safe and perfect. It’s everything.

Louis does eventually lean out of the kiss, breathing shakily against Harry’s skin, coming back every second or so for another brief peck, the gentle brushing of lips against lips, cheek, jaw.

“I’m scared to ask again,” he says, the words no more than a whisper. “Why you’ve come back.”

Harry kisses him again, harder this time, more forceful, and Louis wholly surrenders, body and soul. But Harry can’t allow him to wait any longer, his eyes still searching for the truth, hope shining like stars in a dark blue sky.

“I choose you,” he says, unable to stop himself from leaning back in the moment he’s confessed, kissing Louis’ open mouth, his chapped lips, sticky from tears, curling up in a cautious half-smile. “I choose you. I choose this place. I choose Beau and Darcy. I choose being a family.”

Louis begins to laugh, a real laugh, full of joy, as Harry continues to ramble. “I choose snow and driving on the wrong side of the road. I choose not knowing what the hell I’m looking at in the grocery store. I choose hot cocoa and castles made of bed sheets.”

He brings their mouths together again, and it’s sloppy and wet and toothy with their wide smiles, and Harry couldn’t imagine a better kiss. Louis falls out of his shocked paralysis and wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders, pulling himself up on the tips of his toes for a better angle.

And Harry doesn’t stop there. Because every word that comes out of his mouth makes Louis giggle a little louder, smile a little brighter, see a little clearer that this is real. “I choose your hands on me and mine on you. I choose your lips and your eyes and your messy morning hair. I choose your heart.”

“You might kill me if you keep this up,” Louis says, but he doesn’t sound worried. He says it dreamily, his lips never quite leaving Harry’s.

“I choose you,” Harry finishes. “If you’ll have me.”

“Thank God” Louis murmurs, kissing him once more before moving his chin to Harry’s shoulder, hugging him tightly. “Of course we’ll have you. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Harry whispers, breathing him in, squeezing him as tightly as he dares. “I love you so much.”

Louis breathes a sweet giggle against his ear and pulls away, but the distance is anything but cold as he drags him back into the bedroom. “We’re a mess and I hadn’t got around to stripping the sheets, so we might as well take advantage,” he purrs, pushing Harry down atop the wrinkled duvet.

There’s an undeniable twinkle in his eye, and Harry knows this is just the beginning of a life built on giving this silly, gorgeous, wonderful man anything he could ever dream of.

And when the sun has set on another perfect day, and they finally untangle one from the other, on their minds Liam’s imminent arrival and their need to go to the girls, Harry knows, without even the shadow of a doubt, that everything is going to be alright when Louis says, brow quirked and lips still kissed cherry red, “Baby, where’s your stuff?”

**\- Liam -**

The eve of the new year has come, and Liam is in London. But so is Zayn. And Louis. And Harry. And even Niall.

Liam had to come back here temporarily, of course. And Zayn wouldn’t even consider not following him. While the decision to trade London for L.A., to stay with Zayn, had been made easily, the logistics of packing up his life and moving halfway around the world are a bit more complex. But they’re figuring it out together, hand in hand, one step at a time. 

When they’d arrived, Zayn entirely unprepared for the cold but a smile still on etched into his beautiful face despite the shivers, they’d found Liam’s house sparkling clean, and Liam has to admit he did breathe a sigh of relief. He knew what had happened there in his absence.

They’d also found, with a knock on the door as they sat down for dinner, a very handsy Louis and a happily rosy-cheeked Harry. Louis and Zayn were the last to meet, and Louis had been appropriately wary, challenging his intentions as any good best mate would. But by the end of the night, spent jumping between four stories of love and laughter, he’d given his blessing, in his own very Louis way.

Louis had promptly invited them both to his home for a New Year’s Eve soirée, and Harry had jumped in, his eyes glittering as he spoke of his excitement to have everyone here together. He mentioned the girls, cheeks turning a bright pink when Louis recounted in animated fashion all the reasons his daughters love Harry.

Liam had gotten Niall on the phone a day later, and upon inviting him to stop in London for a celebration, to meet his friends, before venturing home to Ireland for his much-needed break from the business, he’d had to rip his phone from his ear to avoid Niall’s joyful shouting bursting his eardrum. Louis was more than happy to have him, easily distracted after offering his approval, Harry leaning over to kiss him.

Now, Liam watches fondly as Zayn chats with Harry, as they discuss what their partnership will look like now that Harry is relocating. He feels his cheeks light up with happy embarrassment as they both turn to look at him, like he’s suddenly become the topic of conversation. Zayn is rambling on, and Liam can’t hear a single word with his distance across the room, but his heart beats like a drum with the way Zayn gazes at him, with the way Harry can’t help but smirk like he knows a juicy, delicious secret.

Louis waltzes over to them, Beau and Darcy temporarily distracted by Niall and his charming stories, and pulls Harry away as Frank Sinatra’s sultry voice wishes them all a merry little Christmas. And sure, Christmas has passed, but according to Louis, this perfect, messy, little family they’ve all managed to throw together “deserves a popular Christmas celebration.” No one had argued, each and every one of them more than happy to have a second, better Christmas.

A helpless smile grows on Liam’s lips as he watches them dance, Harry’s arms wrapped tightly around Louis, Louis’ hands busy in his curls. They smile madly, love shining in their eyes, seeing nothing but the other. Harry whispers something against Louis’ ear, and Louis throws his head back, giggling like Liam hasn’t seen in years.

His attention is taken then by Zayn, gliding toward him, eyes burning gold with a little help from the Christmas lights illuminating the room. He reaches for Liam’s hands, and Liam offers them happily, letting him pull him in for a dance. Zayn’s palms wander from Liam’s chest, over his shoulders, and around his neck, where he pulls him down for a kiss. They’re barely dancing, in all honesty, mostly standing still, only shuffling their feet every few seconds, holding each other so surely. It’s absolutely perfect.

The couch erupts in raucous laughter, Niall’s loud cackle surrounded by high-pitched squeals, the bell-like ringing of little girls’ excited giggles. Zayn’s nose caresses his cheek as Liam turns to look at them fondly. A bittersweet wave of sadness rolls over him, at the thought of leaving them, and Zayn sees it.

He touches his face, a soft, gentle comfort. “We’ll visit,” he says. “You’ll see them.”

Liam nods, accepting his kiss, getting lost for the millionth time in the smooth brushing of lips against lips, the way Zayn runs his tongue along the seam of Liam’s, knowing he’ll give him anything he might ask for. When he catches his breath, he says, “I know. And Harry will bring Lou and the girls to see us.” 

Zayn nods, watching carefully for any sign of regret. He won’t find one. But Liam consoles him anyway. “I’m so happy,” he sighs, pressing their lips together once more. “I’ll miss them. But I want this. I promise.”

Zayn smiles, “I know you do.” He lightly scratches his nails against the back of Liam’s neck, sending a shiver down his spine, knowing exactly what he’s doing. “I do, too. More than anything.”

They sway to one song after another, hiding within each other, surrounded by joy and love and laughter as the others carry on around them.

“Harry put his house up for sale,” Zayn says eventually. “You beat him to it, though. Guess we’re the better couple.”

Liam smiles and looks up from Zayn’s shoulder to find Louis curled up in Harry’s lap, Darcy bouncing gleefully atop both of them. Harry is squashed into the couch, and Liam hasn’t known him for very long, but he doesn’t imagine he could look happier. His smile only grows when Louis turns in the split-second it takes Darcy to pull herself back up for another attack and kisses him hard, without warning. Darcy pounces, and Louis groans, and Beau comes running to add to the chaos. It’s beautiful. They look like a family.

“I think they’ll be just fine,” Liam says, planting one last brief kiss on Zayn’s cheek before pulling him into the kitchen. They drink the mulled wine Louis and Harry bragged about the moment their guests walked out of the snow and through the door into the kitchen smelling of warm spices. When they wander back out into the living room, Louis and Harry have each got a little girl propped on their hip, and Niall is weaving between them all, showing off some Irish-style jig.

Everyone has a smile on their face, the music can barely be heard over the never-ending laughter, and Zayn’s hand is warm when it grips his own, grounding him, making him feel safe and real and whole in a way he’d never before thought was possible, within his reach.

And he sees, with the lights reflecting in blue and green eyes as brightly as in Zayn’s amber gaze, that home looks different for everyone. But there’s one thing that never changes. It’s always there, behind joyful laughter and hearts beating fast. Dancing around the living room or swimming in the ocean or letting hands explore new skin under bedsheets. Lips trailing kisses or spinning tales or confessing secrets.

Home might be anywhere. Anyone. But it always,  _ always _ looks like love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap! Thank you so much for reading! I hope you loved this little story, though it could never be as perfect as the movie.
> 
> Please give me some sweet validation and leave kudos or chat with me in the comments or on [Tumblr](http://larryandgaystuff.tumblr.com)! The post for this fic can be found [here](http://larryandgaystuff.tumblr.com/post/168270235664/let-your-heart-be-light-by-larryandgaystuff-a) if you'd be so generous as to like or reblog.
> 
> Wishing you all a merry Christmas and a happy new year!! <3


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